VICTOR CHATMAXC'S 

LETTERS 

FROM FRANCE 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



VICTOR CHAPMAN'S LETTERS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA ■ SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 




Victor and His Mother. 



VICTOR CHAPMAN'S LETTERS 
FROM FRANCE 



WITH MEMOIR 
By JOHN JAY CHAPMAN 



$fcm $ork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1917 

All rights reserved 



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Copyright, 1917 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY * 
Set up and printed. Published May, 1917. 



JIM -I 1917 



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M467224 1_ 



Br Mratrti ta 
WILLIAM ASTOR CHANLER 

AND 

AUGUST F. JACCACI 

IN GRATITUDE FOR THEIR GOODNESS 
TO MY SON 

J. J. c. 






CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Memoir 3 

The Legion 45 

Aviation 137 

Addenda 193 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Victor and His Mother Frontispiece 

Victor at Three Facing Page 12 

In Toy Harness 14 

Country Friends 16 

Home for the Holidays 20 

Legionnaire 45 

Life in the Legion 86 

Aviation 137 



MEMOIR 



Great-hearted, loyal, reckless for a friend; 

Not counting risks, cool handed, clear of sight, 

He gave himself to serve a lofty end, 

And, like an eagle soaring in the light, 

On wings unruffled by the wind's chance breath 

He sought, and seeks his goal with steadfast flight, 

— Victor, indeed, in name, in life, in death! 

John Heard, Jr. 



MEMOIR 

Victor Emmanuel Chapman, a member of the 
Franco-American Aviation Corps, was killed at 
Verdun on June 23, 1916, and fell within the German 
lines. He was in his twenty-seventh year; was born 
in New York, spent two years at the Fay School, 
went for several years to St. Paul's School, Concord, 
lived abroad for a year in France and Germany. On 
his return, he spent a year at the Stone School in 
Boston and then went to Harvard, where he gradu- 
ated in 1913; immediately after graduation he went 
to Paris and studied architecture for one year in the 
atelier of M. Gromort, in preparation for admission 
to the Beaux Arts. This made him a Beaux Art 
student, — for the ateliers are a part of the school, — 
and thus it came about that in 1914 he joined the 
Foreign Legion. 

Victor spent a year in the trenches at a point in 
the lines where there were no attacks, but where 
inaction and the continual " sniping" severely tried 
the nerves. Kohn, an accomplished Polish mathema- 
tician was shot, as he and Victor were leaning over 
the talus. He died in Victor's arms. For over one 
hundred consecutive days Victor was in the front 
trenches as aide-char geur to a mitrail. He was 
slightly wounded once, and one half of his squadron 
were either killed or seriously hurt. In September, 



4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

191 5, he was transferred to the Aviation Corps. He 
served a short time as a bomb-dropper to aviators 
and was then sent to learn to fly at the instruction 
camps. He received his flying papers as Pilot in the 
following February. 

The organization of the Franco-American Flying 
Corps was perfected at about this time, and Victor 
went to the front as pilot in company with Norman 
Prince, Elliott Cowden, William K. Thaw, Kiffin 
Rockwell, Bert Hall, James McConnell and others. 

The history of the Franco-American Aviation 
Corps must be sought elsewhere; but the mention 
of it compels a word of admiration for its creator, 
Norman Prince. Prince was as brilliant as an or- 
ganizer as he was as a fighter, and the patience of 
himself and the other young Americans who per- 
sisted in their idea of offering to the French Govern- 
ment an American Flying Corps, when they could, 
with much greater ease have gathered laurels for 
themselves in the French service, will in the future 
be recognized by our country as stamped with true 
patriotism. They clung through thick and thin to 
their idea of an American unit, and at last their offer 
was accepted. By this course they brought the name 
of America into honor and bound their glory on 
their country's brows. 

Victor's mother was so remarkable a woman and 
so like him in many ways, — she was so much the 
author of the heroic atmosphere, a sort of poetic 
aloofness that hung about him and suggested early 
death in some heroic form, — that to leave her out 



MEMOIR S 

in any account of him would be to leave out part of 
himself. Her name was Minna Timmins, and her 
mother was an Italian, a Milanese lady who married 
a rich American and lived with him in Milan in the 
Sixties, during which time five children were born, of 
whom Minna was the eldest daughter. My knowl- 
edge of the early surroundings of their family depends 
naturally upon hearsay and tradition. They seem to 
have had everything handsome about, them. They 
had Opera boxes, horses and carriages, menservants, 
fine linen and cut glass, and a silver tray four feet 
across which was brought into the drawing-room 
ready set and covered with urns, teapots and sugar 
bowls, being borne up by two staggering menservants, 
— to the vast satisfaction of Milan. The children 
lived in the mezzanine, and were packed into small 
rooms and allowed to appear upon show occasions. 
They were much left to servants, and they huddled to- 
gether with fear when they heard the terrible ringing 
of their mother's hand-bell, summoning one servant 
after another to receive peremptory orders. The 
hand-bell signified that a tempest was raging, and 
tempests were frequent; for the mother (Victor's 
grandmother) was a demon of natural force with a 
will and temperament such as Italy sometimes pro- 
duces, and a temper that was under no control. The 
swarm of young semi-Italians was neglected, from 
the point of view of American standards; and yet 
neglect was its advantage. The elder sister became 
the little mother of the brood, and her character and 
wits were thereby developed beyond her years. Now, 



6 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

all this while, there was living in America, a wedded, 
rich and childless sister of Mr. Timmins, and upon 
his death, which occurred early and suddenly, it was 
found that this aunt and her husband, Mr. Martin 
Brimmer of Boston, had agreed to take the children, 
or some of them, to America. They arrived in several 
consignments during several years, and were sent to 
American schools, — all except the oldest boy, the 
mother's pet, who remained in Italy. Minna, a 
swarthy, fiery, large-eyed girl, who looked like the 
younger sybil of Michael Angelo, was sent with a 
sister to St. Agnes' School at Albany. She would 
have been like an eagle in a barnyard anywhere, and 
remained to the end of her life, which occurred when 
Victor was six years old, a classic figure, athletic, 
sweeping and impulsive. She " walked with her head 
in the clouds and her feet at the bottom of the sea." 
She read constantly and wrote diaries, letters, 
memoranda, abstracts of books and notes on lectures. 
She followed philosophical courses and made met- 
aphysical studies down to the end of her life. I think 
there must be twenty note-books of every size and 
shape among her papers, crammed with musings, 
rhapsodies and dates. Her reading was miscel- 
laneous, voracious and disordered; and her mem- 
oranda were like the leaves blown about the Cumean 
cavern by the winds of inspiration. 

Yet for all this whirlwind which seemed to move 
in her steps, there was a central calm in her, a smiling 
majesty; and when I think of her it is as a tall young 
matron full of life, entering a room with gaiety, bear- 



MEMOIR 7 

ing an armful of flowers for the pots and vases, — 
crowned with inner dignity, ready to meet the 
thoughts of all, domestic and full of common sense. 
It was life that glowed in her and flowed out in her 
correspondence, her friendships, her pursuits, her 
passions. Her vitality seemed like extravagance 
because of its fulness, but in her it was nature and the 
modesty of nature. I think that the rarity of her 
came from a sort of double endowment. She had the 
man-minded seriousness of women in classic myths, 
the regular brow, heavy dark hair, free gait of the 
temperament that lives in heroic thought and finds 
the world full of chimeras, of religious mysteries, 
sacrifice, purgation. This part of her nature was her 
home and true refuge. Here dwelt the impersonal 
power that was never far from her. There have been 
few women like her; and most of them have existed 
only in the imagination of ^Eschylus and the poets. 

But Minna's seriousness was not the whole of her; 
and perhaps the part that is played on the stage is 
not the whole of Antigone and Medea. Within the 
priestess there lived a joyous nymph, — a kind of 
Euphrosyne; and this is what makes her doings in- 
describable, because, when she ran riot, it was the 
riot of the grape-vine. There was divinity in it. 

She and her sister were exceedingly religious, with 
a touch of old world Catholicism which they had 
from an old padre whose name, if I could remember 
it, ought to be recorded here; for he lived in the 
memories of the sisters as one of those quiet Saints 
which the Roman Church still gives to the world. 



8 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

The piety of this padre passed over into the Protes- 
tantism which awaited both of the girls. They lived 
in a sanctuary of prayer, religious books, observances, 
meditations. This world Victor inherited; for while 
he had not the intellect of his mother and was an 
inchoate nature, there was from his infancy to his 
death something about him of silence, mystery, god- 
head. 

He continued to the end of his life to make the 
sign of the cross in saying the same prayers that she 
had taught him — which ended with the phrase — 
"and make me a big soldier of Jesus Christ who is 
the Lord and Light of the world." He folded his 
hands like a crusader as he said them. He was a 
part of the middle ages in this piety. His tiny 
trench-bible, which was full of pressed flowers and 
kodaks of his friends, was so much a miniature copy 
of his mother's bible that the little book seemed like 
the baby of the big one. To return to the Brimmer 
household, there was an extraordinary beauty in the 
relation of the two girls to the aunt and uncle who 
had saved them. The girls nourished and celebrated 
the older couple. They hung garlands about them 
and ran before them like fawns. In company with 
the Brimmers, the Timmins girls travelled much in 
Europe. The house in Boston was filled with pic- 
tures, bric-a-brac and educated people. There were 
sumptuous dinners, and elaborate evening recep- 
tions; for the Brimmer establishment was mounted 
luxuriously. In the midst of this social life the two 
girls continued a sort of inner conventual life of their 



MEMOIR 9 

own. Their foreign origin made for them not an 
isolation but a retreat. Their tastes were by nature 
hardy, and they supported each other in being ele- 
mental Italian women, speaking to each other in a 
patois which had originally been Milanese Italian 
and which, of course, I learned in the course of 
time. 

The younger sister, Gemma, was in every way a 
contrast to the elder. She was short, comparatively 
speaking blonde, very sweet and submissive and a 
born slave to the elder. Indeed she was so much 
overshadowed by Minna's dominant nature that it 
was not until Minna married that Gemma came into 
her own. The relation between them, though I think 
it encouraged the imperiousness of Minna, was an 
organic thing, and one which no philosophy could 
reach. They had grown up together like trees that 
are intertwined, and the branches of one shaded the 
other. There was a reminiscence of his mother's 
nature in Victor's friendships. He was always the 
leader, both leaning on and sweeping forward some 
subordinate nature who adored and followed. This 
matter gave me concern, but there was nothing to be 
done about it. 

Minna was infinitely more expressive than Victor. 
She acted upon her impulses which were loving and 
headlong, tender or fierce, personal or impersonal as 
occasion gave rise to them, but always large, and 
done with a sweep. Some people she terrified by her 
force, others she melted by her warmth. She once 
met on a doorstep a very beautiful young girl of her 



io LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

acquaintance, and who was wearing a new hat 
trimmed by herself with imitation sweet-peas. 
Minna was enraptured by the vision but the colors 
were wrong. Some of the tints in the sweet-peas 
were inharmonious. She took the hat from the head 
of the vision and picked off the offending colors one 
by one and threw them to the winds. Yet she did 
this in such a way as to endear herself and explain 
the action. She was an extreme example of that 
temperament which the Italians call terribile, — the 
temperament that speaks its mind on all occasions. 
The word does not imply a savage manner but an 
insuppressibility. Minna was capable of extraor- 
dinary social finesse. At a social function a very 
kind good Bostonian gentleman admired her dress 
and took the edge of it in his fingers. Both she and 
her sister wore dresses that were somehow reminis- 
cent of Italy. This action of the admirer was the 
sort of trespass upon the person which deserved a 
rebuke — and she said, " Tafiissier?" — but she said 
it with a smile and with so much benevolence that 
there was no sting in it. 

I must admit, — what the reader will have sur- 
mised, — that her unconventionality and habit of 
spontaneous expression did not please all people. 
There are those who cannot enjoy nature in this 
geyser form. A friend reminds me of the following 
story, which is probably true. Minna and I were 
walking on Fifth Avenue, apparently engaged in 
moral discussion, when some one met us. It seems 
that she had taken the tortoise-shell pins out of her 



MEMOIR ii 

hair, and her braids fell to her waist. Her plea was 
that she had a headache. My sense of propriety was 
shocked, and I was vainly supplying her with sound 
reasons for a more seemly behavior. At length I 
gave way to her point of view, took off my coat and 
carried it on my arm. This policy of non-resistance 
worked like a charm, and she put up her hair. I 
resumed my coat. Now it is impossible to make all 
persons understand a being of this sort. But on the 
whole, Minna was well understood and rightly all 
but worshipped by many. 

She loved old people, and made a cult of various 
beautiful examples of old age who were then blessing 
Boston, and whom she went to see constantly; for, 
at the bottom of her soul, there was a passion of piety 
and reverence, which attached itself to persons who 
were serene. Her early maturity, brought about 
through pain, and which was strangely duplicated in 
her boy, made her a friend to those that suffered. I 
have forgotten to speak of her painting and drawing, 
her studios, her pilgrimages to visit strange saints 
and odd characters. Now, it was a man who made 
violins or who had a collection of early watches. Now, 
it was an old woman who had lost eight sons in the 
Civil War. The reverence she would cast into the 
accosting of the milk man, if for any reason her 
imagination was awakened, was a thing I have never 
seen in another and which, at this moment, fills me 
with awe. She could be rough too, and smite like 
Agag; and in case of some supposed injustice or 
meanness, she would smolder, flash and crash with 



12 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

volcanic power. It wasn't she that did it: it just 
occurred. 

Her sister was in a lingering and fatal illness at the 
time Victor was born. I think it was for this reason 
that his Christening was hurried. About nine days 
after his birth, his mother wrapped him in the pelt of 
a mountain cat and went to Boston for the Christen- 
ing. Phillips Brooks was his god-father. Soon after 
this, Minna became possessed with the idea that if 
Gemma could be fed with milk from her own breast, 
she would be saved. I remember only the tragic 
passions of this crisis, and I do not know whether the 
plan was carried out or not; but I seem to remember 
another journey to Boston with this end in view. 

Minna was immensely strong physically and 
would spend six hours on a step-ladder papering a 
room or hanging pictures. She sewed, hammered, 
sawed, painted, etched, gathered flowers, decorated 
and arranged indefatigably. Her passion for physical 
objects was a Mediterranean inheritance. She could 
never have enough of them; an object, once loved and 
collected, retained its significance and sanctity in 
her mind. Her little drawing-room, which my grand- 
mother used to call a junk-shop, was really the cata- 
logue and digest of her soul's history. 

She was a great housewife and loved accounts, 
kept her bills and beat down the tradesmen like a 
peasant. I used to find my old friend and neighbor, 
Thomas Ward, the coal merchant, holding long 
sessions with her in the parlor. I used to say to him — 
"Mr. Ward, how can you make money on this sys- 




Victor at Three. 



MEMOIR 13 

tern?" — But I suppose he did it somehow; for I had 
an affectionate letter from him at the time of Victor's 
death. Minna was also a believer, or half-believer, in 
astrology; and I have somewhere in a trunk a large 
engrossed horoscope of Victor, predicting for him 
almost incredible glory and greatness. 

As soon as Victor was born, he became the idol 
and slave of this Sybil. He was a swarthy child, all 
eyes, and his eyes shone like stars, and he was gen- 
erally in tears. The Sybil took him with her wherever 
she went, mopped his tears and got him so that he 
would forbear to weep so long as she was by. If she 
left him for a half hour, however, — there were the 
eyes and the tears. His slowness at book-learning 
made him the despair of infant schools, and his ap- 
titude for getting into danger made him the terror of 
nurses and guardians. That there was something 
very remarkable about the child everyone felt; but 
his melancholy gave us concern. When he was eight 
years old, there was trouble with a canary. His 
great-grandmother, who made a pet of Victor and 
used to send him notes and picture-cuttings from 
the daily press, said something disparaging about 
the canary in one of her notes. Victor dissolved 
into tears, muttering: "The canary is better than I." 
This fathomless humility he retained through life, as 
well as a portion of his melancholy. 

When Victor was six years old his mother died 
suddenly in child-birth, and Victor, who had lived 
in her as an egg lives in its shell, who had scarcely 
ever been out of her sight or hearing — for she dragged 



i 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

him about as a lioness drags her cub — was left sus- 
pended in an unknown universe, with his grief and 
his visions. He mourned, as sometimes a child will 
mourn in inaccessible solitude, pining and sinking 
deeper and deeper into a stupor. He would stand 
silently by the window for hours and hours with 
unshed tears in his eyes, watching the sky and the 
street. A loving Irish maid-servant, still with us, 
said to him, "Victor, what are you thinking about 
when you stand like that?" He replied, quietly, "I 
am thinking of some one, and you know who." 
His earliest schoolmistress, Miss Buck, writes me 
as follows: "I felt he was cut out for something un- 
usual, he seemed to ponder so over life. It was during 
that winter that his mother died, and although he 
was so little, only six or seven, I felt that he had to 
fight out his troubles alone. It seemed to me that it 
would be intruding to try to talk to him as one might 
to most little fellows. I have a very weird mental 
picture of the thin little face and wondering eyes he 
used to turn up to me, and I remember once I found 
him sitting on the steps of the school-house in the 
drizzling rain, and how shocked I was to find him 
there: and yet I could not baby him. I took him in 
and talked to him about facing things and he went 
home alone to try to help his little brother. He 
seemed a generous spirit even then, and when I saw 
his death in the paper, before I had time to reason 
that it was tragic, it seemed a fitting end to a life 
destined from the outset for something requiring 
unusual strength of character, and one of those 








In Toy Harness. 



MEMOIR IS 

events that do not cause surprise because the mind 
at once realizes they must have happened." 

Victor always regarded me with piety; but as for 
being nourished and fed by my ministrations, it was 
out of the question. Not until his stepmother had 
lived with him and over him for several years did the 
mystic past begin to fade and the new world open 
around him. He had a brother, also Minna's child, 
two years younger than himself, and the two were 
passionately fond of each other. The younger was 
shy, brilliant, blond, handsome as a prince, and quite 
a genius at painting. When Victor was twelve, the 
younger was drowned almost before his eyes in the 
torrent of a rapid river. The child had been left 
alone by Victor for a moment, could not swim, and 
must have lost his balance and fallen into the flood. 

Here was grief indeed and the world lost once 
more, for a morbid child with no apparent talents 
and a gift of suffering such as few natures possess. 
The loss of this little boy rearranged the universe for 
the family in such measure as those know who have 
passed through the experience, and during the long 
cataclysm, Victor was not especially considered, 
though he had the bitterest end of it, for he always 
wondered whether somehow he had not been to 
blame. But youth is youth and survives, and within 
a few years, Victor became a dull and weedy school- 
boy, much alone, fond of the woods and of nature, an 
open air creature, a young wild animal. He would 
harness a gennet to a double runner and drive at a 
gallop about the countryside, standing on the sled 



16 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

and brandishing whips of his own manufacture. 
Indeed in his earlier years he had sought the fields. 
Soon after my second marriage, a guest in the house 
discovered, what none of us knew, that Victor, aged 
about nine or ten, was in the habit of rising at day- 
break and roaming the countryside. "Victor," said 
the lady to him, "why do you do this?" "Because 
it is the best time of the day," he said. "The light 
is muzzy and all the creatures are out." 

Victor never really felt that he was alive except 
when he was in danger. Nothing else aroused his 
faculties. This was not conscious, but natal, — a 
quality of the brain. As some people need oxygen, so 
Victor needed danger. I have seen him walk on the 
roof-tree of a barn — with his younger brother (the 
painter, who had no aptitude for such feats) walking 
behind him; and my heart gave a squeeze as if some 
one had taken it in a monkey-wrench. We were 
always saving him, and I had always a greater fear 
for the younger one than for him. Everyone thought 
Victor bore a charmed life and you couldn't convince 
his contemporaries that any harm could befall him, 
so constantly would he fall from the top of a pine 
tree and guide himself by the branches as they broke 
under him. My sister-in-law on one occasion saw, 
while walking on the lawn, the silhouette of Victor, 
aged 12, dancing upon the gutter of the mansard roof. 
He was fighting with a nest of hornets whom he had 
disturbed, but he did not lose his presence of mind 
as he beat a retreat. An English friend, the Rev. 
Mr. Dalrymple, who acted as tutor to Victor during 





Country Friend* 



MEMOIR 17 

a visit to England, writes to me, commenting on 
Victor's presence of mind and sang froid at the age 
of ten. During an excursion on the Thames the boy 
managed to fall into the water from a rowboat, and 
had, as his tutor thought, a narrow escape from 
drowning. On being fished out of the water Victor 
remarked that it was lucky he had worn his wash- 
suit. 

His boyhood showed many life-saving incidents 
to which little attention was paid, and of which no 
record was kept, — the saving of a child from drown- 
ing at a picnic, the rescue of his small brother from 
between cars that were being coupled, etc. The 
following letter from John Temple Jeffries, a class- 
mate at Harvard, was printed in the Boston Tran- 
script soon after Victor's death. 

"The death of Corporal Victor Chapman in an 
aeronautical battle in France means much more 
than the loss of merely one American gentleman, 
though that in itself is bad enough. It means the 
loss of a man who had all the noble and chivalrous 
instincts in such overwhelming proportions that it 
was literally impossible for him to act like the average 
person. It was as though Prince Rupert or Richard 
Plantagenet himself had stepped down from history. 
Chapman never could bridle his intrepidity enough 
to avoid all rows, and he never could suppress chiv- 
alry enough to be really politic. He was, besides, a 
born soldier, with all the snap and alertness of 
militarism. His unerring instinct in art would have 
brought him the highest honors inside of fifteen years. 

"Just five years and a half ago, I think, Chapman 
declined to follow me across some ice floes half a 



18 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

mile out to sea because the going was palpably un- 
safe, and inside of ten minutes he had saved my life 
by returning and working out to sea till he finally 
hooked me out from the icy water on the muzzle end 
of a loaded and cocked rifle. Nothing could be more 
typical of him. His death in France resulted from 
again trying to save his friends' lives. 

"If long and distinguished ancestry, the presence of 
all a man's virtues and the absence of all vices count 
for much, then Harvard has lost one of the greatest 
gentlemen that ever studied at that university." 

I have the following story from one of his com- 
rades in the Foreign Legion. When Victor was in the 
trenches, his Captain, upon one occasion, had to take 
a pistol to him to prevent his attempting the rescue 
of a comrade who was engulfed in a neighboring mine 
explosion. Victor's anger was so great at being with- 
held from doing what seemed to him the merest act of 
decency that, in the words of the relator, "77 en est 
devenu malade" 

He had no aptitude for sports, none for books, none 
for music; but always a deep passion for color and 
scenery, and a real talent for all forms of decoration, 
which we hoped would lead him toward painting or 
architecture. His water-color sketches, done in 
191 3-14 in Paris, showed a great advance on earlier 
work; but the dreamer was still in his dream, — and art 
is concentration. His pleasure was in scenery. If 
you could place him in a position of danger and let 
him watch scenery, he was in heaven. I do not think 
he was ever completely happy in his life till the day 
he got his flying papers. 



MEMOIR 19 

It will be seen that Victor belonged to a well-known 
type of nature which develops slowly. All those 
necessary stimuli which the world has invented to 
encourage the ambition and awaken the intelligence 
of boys were applied to him in the approved manner, 
both at home and at various schools, but fell upon 
him as appeals to a sleeping thing, — disturbing, sad 
and terrible voices. Whether they could ever have 
called him out of his own world into ours cannot be 
known. As it is, the few "trivial fond records" of 
him which survive, give us a glimpse into the cloudy, 
starry place he lived in. During the last few years, 
I was sometimes disturbed by his lack of interest 
in women and by his relations to them, which 
were either social or seraphic — for he was an 
angel in these matters of sex. He was untoucha- 
ble and world-wise even from early youth. In 
the understanding of other people's sorrows, he 
was wise beyond his years and as discreet as an 
oak tree. 

As an influence upon his younger brothers, he dis- 
played the qualities, one might say, of all the different 
ages at once. He was youthful, benign, humorous, 
astute, far-sighted, impersonal and affectionate. He 
was of course regarded by them as a demigod, partly 
because they were clever and he was not clever, only 
large. There was something like a big dog about 
him, a helpless quality. He needed attention; and 
inactivity brought with it sad moods and the phan- 
tom hounds of inner reproach. Not that he ever did 
anything to deserve reproach, — except the giving 



20 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

way to this very inactivity. I recall, as I write, cer- 
tain rare, short outbursts of unmeaning fierceness 
which passed over him, — as in a wolf that is domes- 
ticated. At such times he would speak strangely to 
those who loved him most. For me he had that ex- 
treme piety toward the parent which prevails in 
Semitic tribes. He was also very fond of me, and 
proud of me; and our relations were perfect. Yet 
once in two years he would unexpectedly bark at me 
and paw the ground, as if I and the whole universe 
I lived in were intolerable to his soul. When he was 
a small boy these gusts of passion alarmed me, and 
I used to warn him that he might kill his best friend 
in one of them, and then become a prey to everlasting 
remorse. But in fact he never took action while in 
these fits. They were explosions of an energy which 
darkly collected in him and which needed ambition 
as its outlet. 

Let him serve some one and he leaped with great 
bounds to do it. He would put up a wood-shed, or 
build a pier, if there were an excuse for being useful. 
In his physical force, large frame, and need for man- 
ual labor, he resembled his mother, and there was 
something in him that always reminded me of Mil- 
ton's lines: — 

"Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn 
His shadowy flail had threshed the corn 
That ten day-laborers could not end; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 




Home for the Holidays. 



■ 



MEMOIR 21 

And stretched out all the chimney's length, 
Basks by the fire his hairy strength; 
And cropful out of door he flings, 
Ere the first cock his matin rings." 

Victor could eat anything, sleep on anything, lift 
anything, endure anything. He never had enough of 
roughing it till he joined the Foreign Legion, and his 
year in the trenches made him taller, straighter, 
compacter, and gave him the walk, smile and eye 
of a self-confident man. It was the cause that made 
a man of him. Here was a thing that was big 
enough. 

Just before his enlistment in August, 1914, there 
occurred a scene between Victor, his stepmother and 
myself, which was our domestic part of the great war 
drama. No doubt millions of families on which the 
wheels of fate were then turning, can recall similar 
little dramas in which the dies of life and death were 
thrown for them. We were all in a London hotel, 
having fled the Continent at the mobilization. The 
English people were singing the Marseillaise in front 
of the Parliament Houses. Victor had been prowling 
about in a lonely way for twenty-four hours, and he 
now, with a sort of hang-dog humility, suggested that 
he was going to enlist. I reasoned with him. With 
that stupidity which is the natural gift of parents, I 
probed his conscience and suggested that perhaps it 
was merely a random desire to see life and get rid 
of his serious duties that led him to the idea of en- 
listment. He concurred, with dumb diffidence, and 
said: "No doubt this must be it." My wife says that 



22 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

I called him a quitter and held him up to the scorn of 
just men. But my own idea was that I was only 
preventing the lad from doing something which was 
not fundamentally his duty. He submitted. I sup- 
posed he was merely being rational; but there was a 
something in his voice and manner, something, I 
know not what, of a soul-tragedy, that struck his 
stepmother and gave her a vision of a ruined life. 
And as soon as Victor had left the room, she said: 
"He has submitted through his humility and through 
his reverence for you. But I had rather see him lying 
on the battlefield than see that look on his face." 
Within a week, he was in France. 

At the time of his enlistment and during his entire 
service, he received advice, assistance and constant 
care from my wife's brother, William Astor Chanler, 
then living in Paris, who became for him rather a 
second father than an uncle. The old buccaneer and 
the young one understood each other perfectly, as 
may be seen in many of Victor's letters, which con- 
cern boots, periscopes, eye-glasses, under-clothes, 
chocolate and small talk. Victor seems to have 
commandeered every resource of his uncle with the 
confidence of a spoiled child. He treated Augustus 
F. Jaccaci, then in Paris, with much the same free- 
dom. Victor never seems to thank either of 
them, but to live upon them as on conquered 
territory. 

The following sketch by Alexandre Mavroudi, 
which appeared in the French Journal, ['Opinion, of 
July I, gives a picture of Victor's life in the Legion. 



MEMOIR 23 

The material was furnished by a fellow Legionnaire 
and great friend of Victor's, Kisling the Polish 
painter. 



During the first days of the war Chapman's com- 
pany was set to digging trenches in the neighborhood 
of Paris. The young Yankee set to work with in- 
credible vim. He chopped, hacked and digged, hour 
after hour without a pause. The captain noticed him. 
"Say, you there, were you a ditch-digger in private 
life?" "You're off there, captain," said a bystander, 
"he's a millionaire." But Victor Chapman had the 
American point of view about money. Money is for 
necessaries, for gay whims and to help a friend. 
Money relieves no one from work, obligation or duty. 
Money multiplies energy, but should never paralyze 
it. 

"Chapman, you're on the potato squad today." 
"Good, come along!" And the rich American starts 
peeling potatoes rapidly, conscientiously, as if he 
had done nothing else all his life. 

After some weeks of training his regiment left 
Paris for the front. Chapman was a mitrailleur. 
He had to set up his gun in a shelter; with the help 
of a Polish comrade, the mathematician Kohn, he 
set to work building the shelter. You would think he 
had the paws of a beaver. The walls rise on the sight; 
in three days the cabin is ready. But a window-sill is 
lacking. Where can one be found? Chapman starts 
on a search in a neighboring village and comes back 
with a wonderful Louis XVI sill on his shoulder. 
The cabin became the reading-room of the section. 
He received almost all the Paris newspapers and 
magazines, not to speak of novels and volumes of 
poetry. One day he also received a book from 



24 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

America. Chapman undid the parcel, and buried 
himself in his cabin, when he came out some hours 
later he was joyful, exuberant; he had read at a 
sitting the anti-German book that his father had 
published in New York to enlighten those fellows 
over there. 

But more trenches had got to be digged, more 
passageways, more cellars. The havoc caused by the 
enemies' guns must be repaired from day to day. 
The Legionnaires worked hard, and Chapman hardest 
of all. At night we saw his figure outlined against 
the darkness, and the sound of his pick-axe broke the 
stillness while all others slept. Chapman had come 
"to work" against the Germans and he did it with all 
his might. 

One morning he felt a twinge in his arm and some- 
thing warm running down inside his sleeve. "Hello! 
I've a ball in my skin." He had it bandaged by a 
comrade, and never thought of going to the Surgeon. 
The Surgeon looked him up. "You're to be sent to 
the rear." "Why?" "To be looked after at the 
hospital." "My friend understands bandaging as 
well as a nurse. Let us attend to it, Sir. I don't 
want to play hookey." Chapman's theory was that 
every man who had an ounce of strength left in him 
and who left the front line was shirking. 

One day a mitrailleur came up to him saying, "I'm 
sick. The major has ordered me to drink milk for 
two weeks; but there isn't any here. They're going 
to send me to the rear, and I'm bored with the no- 
tion." "Good," said Victor. "Stay where you are: 
I'll settle it." At dinner time Chapman disappeared. 
That evening the section saw him returning accom- 
panied by a cow which he was dragging behind him. 
"I bought her so that you could get your milk," said 
he to the sick mitrailleur, "Now you can stay with 



MEMOIR 25 

us." Chapman was the Maecenas of the regiment, the 
master of revels, the friend of all. 

His high spirits were contagious. He was only 
seen to weep once. It was the day his chum Kohn, 
the mathematician, was mortally wounded. Chap- 
man carried him in his arms to the first aid. "Save 
him, sir," he cried, his voice broken with sobs, "and 
I'll give you a hundred thousand francs." The Major 
surgeon was too cut up even to smile. "All is over, 
my friend, control yourself." 



Victor's entry into the American Aviation was, to 
him, like being made a Knight. It transformed, — 
one might almost say, — transfigured him. That the 
universe should have supplied this spirit with the 
consummation which it had sought from infancy and 
should have given, in a few weeks, complete happi- 
ness and complete fulfillment, — the crown of a life 
to which one can imagine no other perfect ending, — 
is one of the mysteries of this divine age. We see the 
crushing misery of much that is in progress. Let us 
also see the new releasing into humanity of infinite 
courage, hope and power. I have not sought to sift 
out the true story of his last fight. That he set out 
to the rescue of his companions I can well believe. 
He was himself rescued many times by them in pre- 
vious combats. To go to each other's rescue was 
their daily and hourly business. 

If Victor could have known the way in which his 
death has brought special notice upon him, he would 
have been amazed, ashamed, — nay, have been rough 
and unpleasant about it. All true soldiers feel like 



26 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

this. They feel that they are enclosed within a force 
not themselves, and form a part of a sort of church 
triumphant — though they can often express them- 
selves only by swearing. Praise strikes them as a 
lie, if not as a kind of blasphemy. All the men fight- 
ing for the Allies, and especially all those young 
Americans who have been fighting for France and 
England, and thereby doing more for their own 
country than for Europe, should be in our minds 
when we think of any one of them. They form a sin- 
gle soul and spirit. 

The enthusiasm which broke out in France at the 
time of Victor's death, and was reflected in this 
country, was due to many causes. He was the first 
American aviator to fall. He was killed just before 
the fourth of July, 1916. His year in the Legion had 
made him known to many, and the fighting qualities 
of the newly-formed American Escadrille had already 
given that body a place in history. These American 
Volunteers whom we had thought might be lost in 
the melee were thus received into the light where 
burned the soul of the war; in their death they were 
canonized. The great fact behind all was this: the 
French people were living in a state of sacrificial 
enthusiasm for which history shows no parallel. 
Their gratitude to those who espoused their cause 
was such as to magnify and exalt heroism. The 
French press blazed with spontaneous paeans. The 
American Church became, as it were, the shrine of 
both nations at Victor's funeral on July 4th. 

Piety compels me to reprint some of the French 



MEMOIR 27 

tributes; because they were made not to Victor, but 
to the American people. 

The following is from Mme. le Verrier: "I have 
just left the Church in the Avenue d'Alma, after 
attending the service in honor of your son. The 
ceremony was very touching in its simplicity. The 
chancel was draped with two great flags and dec- 
orated with flowers; two small flags and other flowers 
were on the altar. The women about me were in 
tears. It was a sad celebration of your Independence 
Day, and brought home to me the beauty of heroic 
death and the meaning of life. 

"When we first learned of the event, and after the 
first moment's stupor had passed, we felt a renewal of 
energy. Everyone is talking of this disinterested 
devotion, — much greater even than that of our own 
men, who are fighting for their own country as well 
as for ideal ends. But the self-sacrifice of this one 
who comes to us, and places himself at our side, for 
no other reason than to make right triumph over 
wrong, is worthy of peculiar honor. It comforts 
those who are in the struggle and shows the road to 
those who doubt. On all sides people speak with 
admiration and gratitude of the details, tragic and 
touching as they are, of his trip to his friend, of the 
little basket of oranges, of his headlong plunge to 
save his comrades. America has sent us this sublime 
youth and our gratitude for him is such that it flows 
back upon his country. Wherever I go I am asked 
about him. Never since the outbreak of the war has 
public sentiment been more deeply aroused." 



28 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Mr. Briand, the prime minister of France, in speak- 
ing at the Banquet of the American Chamber of 
Commerce in Paris on the evening of July 4, paid a 
long tribute to the United States and instanced the 
various kinds of aid that its citizens had given to 
France. In the course of his address he spoke of the 
American aviators, and mentioned Chapman as "the 
living symbol of American idealism." "France," he 
said, "will never forget this new comradeship, this 
evidence of a devotion to a common ideal." 

On July 7, the president of the French Republic 
sent me a telegram as follows. "I beg to offer you 
my perfect sympathy. In your son who has died in 
the most just of all causes I hail a worthy rival of the 
brothers in arms of Lafayette." 

Mr. Jusserand, the French Ambassador at Wash- 
ington, said at the banquet on Lafayette Day, New 
York, Sept. 6, 1916. "Never in my country will the 
American volunteers of the Great War be forgotten; 
some, according to their power, offering their pen, 
or their money, or their help to our wounded, or their 
life. There is not one form of suffering, among the 
innumerable kinds of calamities caused by a merciless 
enemy, that some American work has not tried to 
assuage. In the hospitals, in the schools for the 
maimed and blind, in the ruins of formerly prosperous 
villages, on the battlefields, in the trenches, nay, in 
the air, with your plucky aviators, the American 
name is blessed; in the trenches — where those kits 
named after the hero of to-day, the Lafayette Kits, 
have brought comfort to so many soldiers, in re- 



MEMOIR 29 

membrance of what Lafayette himself had done in 
his time. 

"You are indeed a nation that remembers. When 
Lafayette revisited West Point in 1825, one of the 
orators alluded to his having provided shoes for the 
army at Valley Forge and proposed this toast: 'To 
the noble Frenchman who placed the Army of the 
Revolution on a new and better footing.' More 
than one of our soldiers is, owing to you, on a better 
footing. 

"Serving in the Ambulances, serving in the 
Legion, serving in the air, serving Liberty, obeying 
the same impulse as that which brought Lafayette 
to these shores, many young Americans leaving 
family and home, have offered to France their lives. 
Those lives many have lost and never, even in antique 
times, was there shown such abnegation and generos- 
ity, such firmness of character; men like Victor Chap- 
man who dies to rescue his American and French co- 
aviators nearly overcome by a more numerous 
enemy ... or that Richard Hall killed by a shell 
while on the search for our wounded, and whose 
mother hesitated to accept a permit to visit his 
flower-wreathed tomb at the front, 'because French 
mothers are not allowed to do so;' or that Harvard 
graduate, the poet of the Legion, Alan Seeger, who 
felt that his hour could not be far remote, and who, in 
the expectation of it, had written from the blood- 
soaked battlefield where he had fought for liberty: 
'The Frenchman who goes up is possessed with a 
passion beside which any of the other forms of expe- 



3 o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

rience that are reckoned to make life worth while 
seem pale in comparison. ... It is a privilege to 
march at his side — so much so that nothing that the 
world could give could make me wish myself any- 
where else than where I am.' " 

M. Emile Boutroux, the venerable dean of French 
Philosophy, wrote an article for Le Temps of July 5, 
in which after sketching the early stages of the 
American Escadrille, he said: "It was this picked 
corps that Victor Chapman joined after six months 
of apprenticeship. How happy he was at this 
chance of working, fighting and being useful with 
all the powers he possessed I could judge from the 
visit he paid me shortly afterwards. His simplicity 
and good humor were charming. I complimented 
him on his French. 'Oh,' said he, 'my French is the 
French of the poilus; I don't understand all the 
words I use, and I'm not sure they are all used in the 
polite world, but of course I speak as my comrades 
do.' It would be impossible to unite more of the 
gaiety and tranquility of youth, more sweetness and 
simplicity, with more decision and the energy of 
character than Victor Chapman showed. He was em- 
inently a soldier. In a service where one is thrown 
upon one's own resources, he was duty incarnate, he 
thought only of doing the business in hand as well as 
possible and in contempt of all danger. His in- 
trepidity was extreme; and in the midst of the nerv- 
ous tension which such expeditions give rise to, he 
retained an absolute composure and presence of 
mind." 



MEMOIR 31 

After giving some accounts of the fighting, Mr. 
Boutroux concludes: "Such is the devotion, such are 
the high principles, such is the simple and true grand- 
eur of which the American soul is capable. Such also 
are the reverence, the profound love which France in- 
spires in men who are an honor to humanity. What 
recompense can our labors have, equal to the tes- 
timony of this kind, borne by witnesses like these! 
No; the great interpreters of the human conscience 
were not mistaken. To die, rather than betray the 
cause of right and justice, this is not to die, but to 
become immortal. It means not merely to live in 
the imagination of posterity, but to leave behind one 
those deeds of faith and virtue which, soon or late, 
assure the triumph of right." 

I add a few letters and sketches, which the general 
reader may skip if so inclined, but toward which he 
will be indulgent, remembering that a volume of this 
kind always serves as a little memorial for family and 
for friends. The first is a dictation taken down by 
Mr. Jaccaci from the lips of Louis Bley, Victor's 
mecano. The document is so striking in the original 
French, that I have reprinted it in a page of appendix. 
One feels in reading it that each flyer is the bravest 
of all in the eyes of his devoted mecano. 

"That day, the day of his death, there was a sortie 
over Verdun in the morning. Chapman was in it, 
and returned at nine o'clock, making a rough land- 
ing, which resulted in breaking a sandow. But just 
then they signalled us that the Boches were com- 
ing over Bar-le-duc. I was repairing the sandow, 



32 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

but he took all my tools from me and threw them 
away, saying, * Leave that alone, I must go and 
see the Bodies.' I told him that he couldn't go 
with the broken sandow, and that I wouldn't stand 
for it, as that state of things was too dangerous; he 
might capsize, or have an accident in landing. For 
answer he said, 'It's all one to me capsizing,' — which 
meant, 'It's all one to me if only I can down a Boche.' 
But he didn't get off. After this he went to lunch, 
and since there was to be a sortie at half-past twelve, 
I changed his sparking plugs. He returned at twelve 
fifteen and asked if the machine was ready. I said 
yes. He was delighted, and said he would try it. 
He gave me a big bundle of newspapers with some 
oranges and chocolate and said, 'I shall take a turn 
over the lines, and when I get back I shall stop at 
Vatlincour (behind Verdun), I shall take the oranges 
and chocolate to poor Balsley at the hospital, for I 
think there is little hope of saving him.' Then I 
put the package, the oranges and chocolate in place 
for him to carry to his comrade. He shook hands 
with me and was off, saying, 'Au revoir, I shall not 
be long.' 

" Two days before, they were mending his machine- 
gun, but seeing his companions fly off, he ran to his 
machine, jumped in and he went off without his 
combination, — that is, in his ordinary clothes, above 
the enemies' lines. 

"On his former trip over Verdun, which he made 
with his 80 horsepower machine, he was wounded by 
a ball that grazed his scalp; a trifle lower down and 



MEMOIR 33 

he would have been killed. In this sortie a ball 
had cut the warping control, a bullet had cut the 
turn-buckle of a wing and pierced a wheel; an explo- 
sive bullet had passed through the support which 
holds up the top plane; an explosive bullet had passed 
through the wind-shield and a bullet had grazed the 
varnish of the fuselage and it was this last bullet 
which grazed his skull. 

"He came down at Vatlincourt to have the wound 
dressed, and returned to our barracks at Bar-le-Duc 
at half-past three, and as there was to be a sortie over 
Verdun at four he wanted to be off again in spite of 
his wound. Captain Thenault forbade this; and for 
his courage promised him a machine of no horse- 
power. Chapman was very happy. It was on the 
Verdun sortie with this machine that he was killed. 

"Once at Luxeuil-les-Bains he came in after an 
explosive bullet had passed through the body of the 
fuselage, come out on the side, and exploded against 
the turn-buckle. This same time a bullet entered his 
left sleeve and passed through, grazing the flesh 
and slightly burning the skin. The afternoon of 
the same day, after another sortie, he returned with 
a bullet through the aluminum bonnet of the motor. 
In order not to be visible in his new machine (this 
80 horsepower machine was an entirely white ma- 
chine, the no was painted green like grass), he had 
amused himself two days before his death by scratch- 
ing off the green paint with a coin of ten centimes, so 
as to make the machine less visible. I, his mechan- 
ician, had painted the fuselage a pale gray. The 



34 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

paint was not dry next day when Chapman learned 
that the Boches were over Verdun, and was off all 
the same with the paint wet. I didn't like this, and 
told him he had better wait. He refused, and said, 
' Who cares for paint! If I bring down my Boche, 
that's as good as a new coat of paint.' 

"Once he attacked a Boche and came within 
twelve feet of him. He told me that his propeller 
almost touched the upper plane of the Boche, and 
he could have shot him point blank with his revolver, 
which he had by him always when he flew, but he 
couldn't get it from the case while manceuvering. 

"Another time he was three hours and twenty 
minutes over the German lines, and came down with 
only three litres of gasolene in his tank, — a very 
dangerous thing. 

"Once he flew on one day for seven hours over the 
German lines. He made 70 miles in the air with his 
80 horsepower machine without breaking anything. 
He was a marvellous pilot. Whether on guard or 
not, as soon as the Boche flyers were signalled, he 
would jump into his machine and was off. There 
was not another like him. 

"For flights over the German lines he was always 
the first to start and the last to come home, and 
always flew alone. If one of his comrades was in 
danger he rushed to his aid. But he himself never 
noticed whether he was followed up or supported. 
He was the bravest of all. 

"Once he ran into fifteen Boche planes, and flew 
at them, aiming at the bunch. When he came back 



MEMOIR 35 

Captain Thenault scolded him, but he took it lightly. 
His answer was always, 'If I can get a Boche.'" 

The following is an extract from a long and gen- 
erous letter from Captain Thenault, Captain of the 
American Escadrille. "Our grief was extreme for we 
loved him deeply. At the moments of greatest 
danger in the air we could always discover the 
silhouette of his machine, that machine which he 
managed with so much ease. One of my pilotes has 
just said to me, 'Would that I had fallen instead of 
him.' With the army at Verdun his bravery was 
legendary, and hardly a day passed without some 
exploit from which he returned with his machine 
pierced by bullets and sometimes slightly wounded 
himself. He was to have received the Medaille 
Militaire when death took him. A citation with the 
croix de guerre will speak for a small part of what he 
did." 

The following sentences are from a letter of 
Sergeant McConnell of the American Escadrille to 
Henry M. Suckley, of the American Ambulance 
Corps (afterwards decorated for conspicuous bravery 
under fire, and recently killed near Saloniki). I 
preserve them because they would have pleased 
Victor. "We are all terribly grieved over the death 
of poor old Victor. He was the best and bravest of 
us all and I admired him more than any man I knew. 
He was a wonderful character, and a great loss to 
the world as well as to the French Army. As a 
soldier he was the most conscientious I have ever 
known." 



36 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

The following letter is from my friend M. Andre 
Chevrillon, the French author: 

My dear Chapman: 

I cannot tell our grief. I had the news only yes- 
terday — on my return from the British front by a 
letter from my wife; and in the evening the Temps 
gave fuller particulars. I enclose the cutting. It is 
short, but what it says is among the things of this 
war that will sink deepest in the memory of our 
people. No soldier's death in our modern battle has 
so much of the truly epic as the feat and the fate that 
are described here. They carry us back to the 
legendary times in which everything was pure and 
beautiful — to the times of the Mediaeval Knight who 
ran, single-handed, with his cry of iC A la rescusseV 
to the help of a surrounded and overwhelmed con- 
federate — to the time of Roland and his preux, nay, 
of the Greek, Homeric hero. That word hero is now 
commonly used for all those who die on the battle- 
field, — but they are the obscure heroes, of whom the 
numbers only and nothing individual will be re- 
corded by history. The death fight of Victor Chap- 
man touches our imagination with fire. Be assured 
that his name will stand forever in France. He died 
whilst rescuing, — en combat singulier, — three French- 
men. That name will become a new symbol, and far 
more moving than any of the old links between our 
nations, and the name of America will partake of its 
glamour. Morally the sacrifice more than makes up 
for all that you resented so much in the attitude of 
your present government. You may indeed be proud 
of your son. In those last minutes of his life he rose to 
the front rank of what we call here our Saints: he 
carved his own statue; it has the essential simplicity 
of the supremely beautiful. 

And we also are proud to have known him. He 



MEMOIR 37 

used to come to us quite simply, dropping in like an 
old friend; and the fact is that from his first visit we 
felt as if we had known him for years. He learned to 
feel more at home in our St. Cloud house, which is 
almost country. My wife felt with him as if he was 
one of her big nephews, and the children had a shout 
of joy when they heard his voice downstairs. We 
loved him for his simplicity, his gentleness, his 
modesty, his perfect tact, and what we guessed of his 
courage. Only once did we perceive that he knew 
his risk. Some one asked him if he would go on in 
France with his art studies after the war. He seemed 
for a moment to hesitate, and a sort of vagueness 
came over his look, as he just repeated slowly, "After 
the War. . . .," without adding another word. The 
next moment he was talking merrily of something 
else. But we remembered that broken sentence, the 
sudden and brief change in the look, and we knew 
that he knew the whole risk, and had looked straight 
at the sacrifice. We shall never forget him, and we 
mourn with you both. And yet it is of such a death 
that it has been said, "One should not weep." 

Andre Chevillon. 
June 30, 1916. 

Of all the men that Victor met in the aviation corps 
Kiffin Rockwell was the dearest to him. He envied 
Rockwell for having been in the great charge made 
by the Legion in May; and worshipped Rockwell's 
courage and romantic spirit. When Rockwell fell, 
soon after Victor's death, I felt as if Victor's soul 
was but a little way above Kiffin's head, and "stayed 
for his to keep him company." 

Escadrille N. 124, Secteur 24. 

August 10, 1916. 
My dear Mrs. Chapman: I received your letter 
this morning. I feel mortified that you have had to 



38 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

write me without my having written you before, 
when Victor was the best friend I ever had. I wanted 
to write you and his father at once, and tried to a 
number of times. But I found it impossible to 
write full justice to Victor or to really express my 
sympathy with you. Everything I would try to 
say seemed so weak. So I finally said, "I will just 
go ahead and work hard, do my best, then if I have 
accomplished a lot or been killed in accomplishing 
it, they will know that I had not forgotten Victor, 
and that some of his strength of character still lived." 
There is nothing that I can say to you or anyone 
that will do full credit to him. And everyone here 
that knew him feels the same way. To start with, 
Victor had such a strong character. I think we 
all have our ideals when we begin but unfortunately 
there are so very few of us that retain them; and 
sometimes we lose them at a very early age and 
after that, life seems to be spoiled. But Victor was 
one of the very few who had the strongest of ideals, 
and then had the character to withstand anything 
that tried to come into his life and kill them. He 
was just a large, healthy man, full of life and good- 
ness toward life, and could only see the fine, true 
points in life and in other people. And he was not 
of the kind that absorbs from other people, but of 
the kind that gives out. We all had felt his influence, 
and seeing in him a man, made us feel a little more 
like trying to be men ourselves. 

When I am in Paris, I stay with Mrs. Weeks, 
whose son was my friend, and killed in the Legion. 
Well, Victor would come around once in a while to 
dinner with us. Mrs. Weeks used always to say to 
me: "Bring Victor around, he does me so much good. 
I like his laugh and the sound of his voice. When he 
comes in the room it always seems so much brighter." 
Well, that is the way it was here in the Escadrille. 



MEMOIR 39 

For work in the Escadrille, Victor worked hard, 
always wanting to fly. And courage! he was too 
courageous, we all would beg him at times to slow 
up a little. We speak of him every day here, and 
we have said sincerely amongst ourselves many a 
time that Victor had more courage than all the 
rest of the Escadrille combined. He would attack 
the Germans always, no matter what the conditions 
or what the odds. The day he was wounded, four 
or five of the Escadrille had been out and come 
home at the regular hour. Well, Victor had attacked 
one machine and seriously crippled it, but the 
machine had succeeded in regaining the German 
lines. After that Victor would not come home with 
the rest but stayed looking for another machine. 
He found five machines inside our lines. None of 
us like to see a German machine within our lines, 
without attacking. So, although Victor was alone, 
he watched the five machines and finally one of them 
came lower and under him. He immediately dived 
on this one. Result was that the other dived on 
him. One of them was a Fokker, painted like the 
machine of the famous Captain Boelke and may 
have been him. This Fokker got the position on 
Victor, and it was a miracle that he was not killed 
then. He placed bullet after bullet around Victor's 
head, badly damaging the machine, cutting parts 
of the command in two, and one bullet cutting his 
scalp, as you know. Well, Victor got away, and 
with one hand held the commands together where 
they had been cut and landed at Froids where we 
had friends in a French Escadrille. There he had 
dinner and his wound was dressed, and they repaired 
his machine a little. That afternoon he came flying 
back home with his head all bound up. Yet he 
thought nothing of it, only smiled and thought it an 
interesting event. He immediately wanted to con- 



4 o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

tinue his work as if nothing had happened. We 
tried to get him to go to a hospital, or to go to Paris 
for a short while and rest; but he said No. Then 
we said, "Well, you have got to take a rest, even if 
you stay here." The Captain told him that he would 
demand a new and better machine for him, and that 
he could rest while waiting for it to be ready, and 
then could see whether or not he should go back to 
flying. This was the 17th of June. The following 
morning Balsley was wounded. The same day or 
the day after, Uncle Willie came to see Victor and 
was with us a couple of days. Those first days 
Victor slept late, a privilege he had not taken before 
since being in the Escadrille, always having got up 
at daylight. In the daytime he would be with 
Uncle Willie, or at the field, seeing about his ma- 
chine, or he would take his old machine and fly over 
to see Balsley. At first Balsley could not eat or 
drink anything. But after a few days he was al- 
lowed a little champagne and oranges. Well, as 
soon as Victor found that out, he arranged for cham- 
pagne to be sent to Balsley, and would take oranges 
over to him. At least once a day, and sometimes 
twice, he would go over to see Balsley to cheer him 
up. And in the meantime he wouldn't ever let 
anyone speak of his wound, as a wound, and was 
impatient for his new machine. On the 21st he 
got his machine and had it regulated. On the 22nd 
he regulated the Mitrailleuse, and the weather 
being too bad to fly over the lines, he flew it around 
here a little to get used to it. His head was still 
bandaged, but he said it was nothing. Late in the 
afternoon some German machines were signalled 
and he went up with the rest of us to look for them, 
but it was a false alarm. The following morning 
the weather was good, and he insisted on going out 
at the regular hour with the rest. There were no 



MEMOIR 4I 

machines over the lines, so the sortie was uneventful. 
He came in, and at lunch fixed up a basket of oranges 
which he said he would take to Balsley. We went 
up to the field, and Captain Thenault, Prince and 
Lufbeny got ready to go out and over the lines. 
Victor put the oranges in his machine and said that 
he would follow the others over the lines for a little 
trip and then go and land at the hospital. The 
Captain, Prince and Lufberry started first. On 
arriving at the lines they saw at first two German 
machines which they dived on. When they arrived 
in the midst of them, they found that two or three 
other German machines had arrived also. As the 
odds were against the three, they did not fight 
long, but immediately started back into our lines 
and without seeing Victor. When they came back 
we thought that Victor was at the hospital. But 
later in the afternoon a pilote of a Maurice Farman 
and his passenger sent in a report. The report was 
that they saw three Nieuports attack five German 
machines, that at this moment they saw a fourth 
Nieuport arriving with all speed who dived in the 
midst of the Germans, that two of the Germans 
dived towards their field and that the Nieuport fell 
through the air no longer controlled by the pilote. 
In a fight it is practically impossible to tell what the 
other machines do, as everything happens so fast 
and all one can see is the beginning of a fight and 
then, in a few seconds, the end. That fourth Nieu- 
port was Victor and, owing to the fact that the 
motor was going at full speed when the machine 
fell, I think that he was killed instantly. 

He died the most glorious death, and at the most 
glorious time of life to die, especially for him with 
his ideals. I have never once regretted it for him, 
as I know he was willing and satisfied to give his 
life that way if it was necessary, and that he had no 



42 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

fear of death, and there is nothing to fear in death. 
It is for you, his father, relatives, myself, and for 
all who have known him, and all who would have 
known him, and for the world as a whole I regret 
his loss. Yet he is not dead, he lives forever in every 
place he has been, and in everyone who knew him 
and in the future generations little points of his 
character will be passed along. He is alive every 
day in this Escadrille and has a tremenduous in- 
fluence on all our actions. Even the mecaniciens do 
their work better and more conscientiously. And a 
number of times I have seen Victor's mecanicien 
standing (when there was no work to be done) and 
gazing off in the direction of where he last saw Victor 
leaving for the lines. 

For promotions and decorations things move 
slowly in the army, and after it has passed through 
all the bureaus, it takes some time to get back to 
you. Victor was proposed for Sergeant and for 
the Croix de Guerre May 24th. This passed through 
all the bureaus and was signed by the General, but 
the papers did not arrive here until June 25th. How- 
ever, Victor knew on the 23rd, that they had passed, 
and that it was only a question of a day or so. He 
had also been promised, after being wounded, the 
Medaille Militaire which he would have received 
sometime in July. I wish that they could have 
sent that to you, for he had gained it, and they 
would have given it to him. But it is against the 
rules to give the Medaille Militaire unless every- 
thing has been signed before the titulaire is killed. 

I must close now. You must not feel sorry, but 
must feel proud and happy. 

Kiffin Rockwell. 



THE LEGION 




mm 

Legionnaire. 



THE LEGION 

Sept. 26, '14. 
Dear Alee: Well, I am having a very amusing ex- 
perience; but I don't know how long it will remain 
so, and when it will become dull. I joined the Volun- 
teers Sunday night and was overcome with the 
kindly way everyone was treated. When I entered 
the Caserne the old soldiers (territorial reservists,) 
reprimanded me for saying "Monsieur" to them, 
and tu'tuoi'd in a very friendly manner. They showed 
me about and seemed to take an individual interest 
in each recruit. 

The people I am thrown with are, for the moment, 
Polish in majority, for they are a crowd which came 
together from Cambrai. But they are of almost all 
nationalities and all stations and ages of life. I am 
most friendly with a little Spaniard from Malaga. 
He has been a newspaper reporter in London and got 
tired of doing nothing there, so he enlisted here. So 
far as I have seen I am the only American (the others 
having been sent to Rouen a day or two before I 
enlisted), but I have seen a couple of negroes. There 
are about thirty Alsatians, a few Russians and a 
few Belgians, one or two Germans, a Turk, and even 
a Chinaman arrived this morning. There are Greeks 
and Russian Jews, and probably many I have not 
noticed. 

A typical Parisian Apache has taken a fancy to 
me. He is a naturalized Russian Jew, but got in as a 
foreigner because he served a turn in prison and did 
not want to be sent to Algiers. Though only twenty- 



46 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

one he has bullet wounds in his arm and scars on his 
neck. I have been in this place three days so my ex- 
periences are wearing off a little and it begins to 
look natural. But last night I attended a very in- 
teresting argument, in which the German Socialists 
were condemned for their actions in the Reichstag. 
As an aside of the discussion a little Alsatian ex- 
plained a probable cause for the atrocities of the 
German soldiers. He having done his service there 
said that the men were treated so harshly and the 
discipline was so strict that he used to hear them 
say: "In a war anyway we will have a good time 
and do what we like." The present crimes are a 
natural reaction from the German iron forms. 

Rueilly Barracks. 
Same date to his brother Conrad: The present 
Military Governor of Paris is said to be partial to 
us, therefore the first battalion got clothed and 
fitted out immediately. But now that the danger 
of the German army's attacking Paris is removed 
there seems no great rush to put us in the field. All 
the factories closed about the first of September and 
everybody was taken into the Legion who presented 
himself. Thus the Second and Third Battalions are 
made up of a very low physical and social class. I 
am glad to hear in the last two or three days that 
over one hundred of the first four Companies (first 
battalions), have been reformed or dismissed. What 
surprised me was the extreme kindliness with which 
we were treated, and the lack of severity in the drill- 
ing. For a couple of weeks the drill masters {pom- 
piers, who engaged voluntarily), were much too kind 
and gentle for the average Legionnaire. But now 
they are stiffening up a little. The drilling began, 
of|course, with marching in, and changing from one 
formation to another. The second day they gave us 



THE LEGION 47 

rifles to drill with and by the second week we already 
had our piou-piou clothes, knapsacks, rifles, water 
bottles and bags, and, of course, the modern "Le 
Bel" rifles. 

We took marches in the streets at the end of the 
first week, and ever since we have taken a march 
nearly every day, — now almost always to the Bois 
de Vincennes. We always march four abreast and 
re-form a gauche en ligne or a droit en ligne, two deep. 
Thus every section of eight men moves as a unit. 
Then there is vers la gauche en ligne, which means 
that all the units of eight, except the first, put them- 
selves on a line with the first. From a double-line 
formation, or even from a column formation, we 
go into a single line a pace and a half apart, called 
en tirailleur. This is the fighting formation usu- 
ally used, from which we shoot standing, kneel- 
ing and lying, and make advances under infantry 
fire. Against artillery fire we do the reverse. As a 
column marching we diminish the intervals (serrer 
les intervals) and crouch, thus sheltering ourselves 
as much as possible under our sacks in which are, 
of course, our bedding, dinner-cans, and cooking- 
pans, — all good armor against shrapnel. 

At first we only did these exercises in the court- 
yard, but this week we have been doing them in the 
afternoon at the aeroplane field of Vincennes. On 
Wednesday we left the barracks with all our officers 
mounted (the first of four companies), and a bugle 
corps playing all the way to the fortifications. 

Your loving 

Victor. 

A jew days later he writes: The time flies in the 
Barracks. It is the routine life, I suppose. We not 
only have our uniforms but almost all our equip- 
ment, and there are rumors that we depart almost 



4 8 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

any day, but I begin to doubt them. Paris is an 
extraordinary sight. I crossed the Place de la Con- 
corde last week about 9:30. There were a few lights 
just to show the outline of the place and the statues, 
but in the sky four great search-lights played. One 
from the garde meuble, another in the distance be- 
yond the Champs Elysees, another from the Eiffel 
Tower, and a fourth coming from the distance be- 
hind the Tuileries. The night was very clear, but 
there were thin shreds of cloud sprinkled over the 
heavens. The search-lights, though their rays were 
often invisible, especially the more distant ones, lit 
up the scraps of cloud which seemed to lie at different 
heights, so that one often saw three tiers of cloud- 
flakes illuminated. All the lights on the Seine or 
in its proximity are extinguished, so that it is like 
the city of the dead, except for the occasional reflec- 
tion of the slowly moving search-light in the still 
water. I have been, this last week, getting permis- 
sion and spending the nights at home, but I have 
had to return to the barracks at 5:45. There being 
no means of travel I used to walk, and it was the 
most pleasurable sensation of the day, — walking the 
banks of the Seine from the Pont Neuf to the Gare 
de Lyon just before sunrise. The changing cloud 
effects of shape and color were beautiful, as was 
Notre Dame as seen from the east with the old houses, 
the river and its bridges. 

The newspapers here gave little news when Paris 
was in greatest danger, but one could tell by the 
sights in the town how things were going. The food 
was very bad here last week, as before, so I used to 
eat out for lunch on alternate days; and in the sub- 
way one always met refugees with bags and children 
who got out at the Lyon station. In a cafe one day 
I had a map and was discussing with Heredia, my 
little Spanish friend, the position of the troops. A 



THE LEGION 49 

well-dressed little woman and her daughter came 
up and said quite simply, "We come from Creil. 
Our house is destroyed for military purposes. The 
Germans are at Compiegne. Pontoise is evacuated 
and the bridge broken. The Avant poste of the 
French is at Ecouen." Ecouen is almost a suburb 
of Paris. Most of this news I have since verified, 
but at the time we had no idea of where the Germans 
were, except by rumor. The German aeroplanes, 
you probably know, flew over us every day about 
two weeks ago. They dropped a few harmless 
bombs, and on the whole amused the population 
who used to gather in probable localities in crowds 
at about six in the afternoon to see them. 

The first day I was at the Boulevard St. Germain 
changing my clothes, when I heard a sound like the 
beating of carpets, only sharper, and growing more 
frequent. Looking out I saw a Taube flying silently 
overhead, and the noise was made by people firing 
at it from the gardens and housetops with pistols, 
shotguns, or anything that came to hand. 

The same afternoon one of them flew over the 
caserne, and the old territorials got their rifles and 
popped at it. Among the newly-arrived volunteers 
was a Chinaman. On hearing the firing and seeing 
the machine he turned quite pale and ran into the 
house, where he is said to have hidden under a bed. 
The next day an order was issued forbidding people 
from firing on German aeroplanes, as the damage, 
it was feared, from the bullets was greater than that 
the aeroplanes might inflict. Mr. Whitney Warren 
looked me up and I have been able to keep in touch 
with the doings of the outside world through him 
and Mr. Jaccaci, whom I see on his return from 
Bordeaux, or other distant points. 

My best love to everyone. I think of America 
often, but I am enjoying this experience. 



So LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

To his mother, undated: We changed garrison yester- 
day, after many false alarms. The change came at 
5:30 yesterday morning and we got ourselves fully 
equipped, and sallied forth. The complete trap- 
pings are very heavy. The water bottle over one 
hip, a large bag for grub and odds and ends over 
the other on top of the bayonet, a box containing 
84 cartridges across the chest, the rifle (weighs 
10 lbs.) and the sack. The sack is about 18 inches 
square by 5, containing change of linen and personal 
effects (I bought a water-color box), on top of which 
are strapped an extra pair of heavy army shoes, and 
part of the squad field-accoutrement, — such as an 
ax, a pail or a shovel. I have the last named. Over 
all is the blanket with a piece of a tent-cloth rolled 
up and folded about. The sack itself sits at the 
height of the shoulders, the personal canteen, which 
is perched above all, is at about the level of the 
head. I thought I might get a chance to see Uncle 
Willy, so I got permission to take my bicycle. I had 
to push it all the way, and carry the sack as there 
was no room in the food wagons which followed us. 
We were in all only a battalion (4 companies), who 
left, but we had our full outlay of mounted officers, 
motor cycles, and wagon train of field kitchen, be- 
sides the corps of buglers. All the wagons are req- 
uisitioned. One still bears the title "Violet Par- 
fumerie" and the horses are of all sorts. Only one 
captain has a horse worthy of the name. We halted 
every forty minutes for ten, and on account of 
traffic made an enormous detour, following the 
fortifications from near Vincennes to St. Cloud, 
where we crossed the Seine again and mounted the 
hill. The view was superb over the Bois, — a little 
misty, and filled with cattle and sheep in pens. I 
looked back as we descended the other side and en- 
joyed our winding column among the tilled fields, 



THE LEGION 51 

with the many-colored little flags sticking from the 
guns, the blue " couvre capet" and the tawny tent- 
covers mingling with the shining gamelles. 

I must leave now. I have had no letter from 
any of you since you left England. Perhaps they 
got stopped at the Caserne. They say not. Any- 
way, Mr. Jaccaci will take them for me in the 
future. 

I am flourishing. The new caserne is better than 
the last. 

Rueil Caserne, October 6th, 1914. 

Dear Papa: This life is very healthy if not too ex- 
citing. Since our walk from the Barracks of Rueilly 
we have not been over-worked. In fact this whole 
procedure is as though one picked up the first lot 
of men in a city street and had a continuous picnic 
with them. The worst part is that they are some- 
times still treated too well, and instead of appre- 
ciating it they grumble that they should not be ex- 
pected to run in the fields, or what a farce it is to 
try to make them dig a ditch while lying down. 
These walks and stops give one a splendid chance 
to view the country under all conditions, even 
though I scarcely ever have the leisure to sketch it. 
We often go out about 6:30 or 7 in the morning, 
and now the mists are rising and one has the faded 
yellow Autumn coloring. Our company has been 
shrinking automatically through reformed men, and 
Germans being sent to Africa, and others to special 
service, such as provision-department, etc., till 
we now number 190 instead of 250, and yet there 
are men portes malades. 

I had the Spaniard, Heredia, changed into my 
squad so as to have a little more intellectual con- 
versation. But he is so absent-minded that I some- 
times get out of patience with him. Occasionally 



52 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

one hears a bit of interesting conversation. A man 
comes in saying: "My wife heard today that her 
brother was killed August 15th. — News travels 
slowly." Then, instead of talking about the soup 
or the exercise, they make interesting remarks of 
personal knowledge. "Yes, my cousin was wounded 
at seven in the morning and he was not picked up 
till sunset." And similar statements which show 
wonderful inefficiency on the part of the field am- 
bulances, — as, "There were only two brancar diets 
to a whole battalion of the 79th." The gossip is 
that these evils are being speedily remedied. In 
fact I see it. We have a brancardier to every squad 
(18 men) maximum instead of a battalion (1,000 
men). It might be of interest to you to know the 
names of the men in my squad. Markus, better 
class Russian Pole with French wife; Heredia, Malaga 
Spanish, writes for Spanish papers and has trans- 
lated Mark Twain, etc.; Held, Swiss origin, born 
in Paris; Gabai, Turkish Jew, Constantinople, 
Spanish ancestry, cheap chemisier; Millet, Italian 
from near Monaco; Zimmermann, Alsatian, Strass- 
burg, professional bicyclist, served as orderly to 
officer in Germany, speaks French with a vile ac- 
cent; Zudak, Russian Pole, very greedy, speaks 
considerable French; Chikechki, ditto, speaks better 
French, a strong fellow; Bogdan, Austrian Pole, no 
French but German; Canbrai, miner, simple man, 
never gives trouble; Bajteck, Austrian Pole, greedy. 
These Poles are by far the best material physically 
for soldiers; and though not very bright, they do 
not give trouble. Gabai, the Turk, is all the time 
talking and getting into most heated arguments 
whenever anyone will talk to him, in fact, his presence 
is always felt when he is in the room by his constant 
flow of language. Manchiuski, the slight little Pole 
tailor, calls him the mitrailleuse. Recently Held 



THE LEGION S3 

got himself changed to the kitchen; the reason he 
gave me was that he could not stand the constant 
yelling and cursing. 

Friday, October 9th. 
I have just come in from a day's march and re- 
ceived my first letters from you through Mr. Jaccaci's 
messenger. We had heard rumors of this march 
and expected it to be difficult, but really it did not 
come up to my expectations. The whole Battalion 
left the barracks at 5:40 after a most disorderly 
rush to assemble, for the whistle blew half an hour 
ahead of time. We drank soup instead of cofTee and 
carried with us coffee and cold meat, and each of 
us had a fagot of kindlings to heat the coffee. The 
rising mists on the Seine valley were very soft as 
they rolled over the poplars. Outside a town where 
we stopped some women came out and gave us 
coffee. Then we came to level lands, wholesale 
market-gardens, and the companies separated and 
tried to manoeuvre without destroying the turnips, 
carrots and cabbages, — a very unsuccessful pro- 
cedure. " Les pay sans gueulent comme des putois" 
said our Captain, and bringing us into a column of 
march we proceeded towards the fields where we 
were due to make cofTee and "repos." 

Our first squad of eclair eurs having got lost, I 
was sent out to do advance sentry-work, that is, 
I with two others. We rambled across the culti- 
vated potatoes ahead of the column, and picked up 
an apple or two besides eating some grapes. The 
midday rest was very delightful. Though we only 
cooked coffee it looked like a true bivouac. The 
Italians in the third company sang the Marseillaise 
and a number of Neapolitan songs, while some 
Russians in another group did fancy dancing. The 
march home was dusty, but not sufficiently long, 



54 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

for we reached the barracks at 3 .-30. I hear we did 
about twenty- two kilometres. 

I have not risen from the ranks yet, but my name 
and face are familiar to the sergeants and Captain, 
and I take the Corporal's place in my squad when 
he is absent. My stammering speech and embar- 
rassed manner, however, detract somewhat from 
the advantages of having a pronounceable name and 
being a recognizable American. 

I made a sentimental faux-pas at Rueilly Caserne 
one night. It was after taps but the lamp was still 
burning. I lay trying to sleep with my head to the 
middle of the room. In fact I was almost asleep. 
There was a call in the room. I afterwards learned 
that the unfortunate Germans were called to be 
sent to Morocco. Some one said, "Ou est Chap- 
man?" and the next thing I knew some one embraced 
me. I thought it was some joke, and lifting my leg 
pushed him across the room. A voice whimpered 
"Sans blague, c'est adieu." It was a poor fellow I had 
seen a few times, who though really French was born 
in Germany and had put his name down as German. 
Then he hurried off, but I was much touched by his 
kiss for I hardly knew him and never heard his name. 

Rueil, Oct. 19th, 1914. 
Dear Alee: I hope you have news before now. I 
shall get photographed for you this week. I ar- 
ranged with a fellow to take some pictures of us on 
the march last week, but since we had the weekly 
march by companies, instead of the battalion to- 
gether, the plan fell through. Besides two good 
marches in the woods and hills west of us — Marly-le- 
Roi, Etang-le-Ville and Foret-de-Marly, and the 
usual Tir, there were two events which were of in- 
terest, — the burial of a French soldier and the ar- 
rival of the Mitrailleuse detachment. 



THE LEGION 55 

A native of Rueil, wounded at the Front, died at 
his home and we, being the nearest garrison, did him 
military honors. With nine others and a Corporal I, 
by chance, was chosen to go in full field equipment 
and conduct the bier to the cemetery. The house 
being opposite the church we merely saluted as he 
was carried by. There were forty soldiers from the 
barracks in undress uniform (bayonet and cap) 
besides most of our higher officers. These all entered 
the church for the service, but we could not, though 
the priest requested it, on account of the separation 
of state and church. After the service we accom- 
panied the hearse to the cemetery proceeded by a 
band, which of course, played the funeral march. 
It was very impressive, for the whole town turned 
out and followed up the narrow, crooked streets of 
the little town. I could not see the procession as I 
marched beside the hearse with my rifle-barrel 
pointing down — a most fatiguing position as I soon 
discovered. 

Ever since I knew of the mitrailleuse squad I have 
tried to get into it. Also both Mr. Warren and Mr. 
Jaccaci advised me to. But the Lieutenant would 
not take me because I had had no previous ex- 
perience. Well, I intrigued with the old Spaniard, 
and on arriving here Friday they found they needed 
more men and demanded them from all the com- 
panies. Heredia, my little Spaniard, also has been 
making efforts. Well, my Captain said he wanted 
his men, and when his hand was forced by the Com- 
mandant, he gave those who had a zero score at the 
range. Heredia was allowed to change because he 
had done very badly. Another effort was made for 
me through the request of the Sergeant of the Mitrail- 
leuse, but the Captain knows my name and refused. 
So it rests. My Gromort companion, a young Rus- 
sian, who joined and was immediately reformed on 



56 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

account of a bad heart, has introduced me to a Rus- 
sian friend, SolotarafT, — a Beaux-Arts graduate, — 
who is doing some work with MacMonnies, — a 
fountain in City Hall Square, and a monument at 
Princeton. He is in the third company and we are 
going to do water-colors together. In fact we did 
one at noon today. Blagly came out yesterday and 
we rambled about, and he told me his fanciful ideas, 
and kissed me on both cheeks at parting, — a most 
exuberant, affectionate nature he has, which bubbles 
through channels of most awful French. It would 
really have amused one to have listened to us chat- 
ter, for it was so much easier to talk than to try to 
understand the other that I noted more than once 
that we were chatting on to one another on different 
subjects at the same time. 

Rueil Caserne, Poste de Garde, 

Oct. 21, 1914. 
Yesterday at eight in the morning there was a 
review of all the four Companies and impedimenta. 
The reserve rations were given out and stuffed in 
our sacks, the great cartouchiers hung round our 
necks, filled with eighty-eight cartridges each, and 
we were lined up, the bugle corps at the right and the 
wagon train behind. One of the Captain's horses 
behaved so badly that he dismounted. The deep- 
chested Commandant, with a long, square black 
beard, mounted on a gentle animal with a misfit neck 
and lanky hind quarters, gave the commands in 
an operatic voice. The Lieutenant-Colonel, old, 
drawn-faced, mounted on a furry-haired polo pony, 
stood beside him, while the Commandant's Aid, 
on a similar animal, ambled about on the steps of a 
neighboring building. Our ruddy-faced, lowering- 
eye-browed Captain — he always wears his medal 



THE LEGION 57 

of a Volunteer of '70 — sat, legs out-stretched on a 
mangy black nag. " Presentex Armes!" roared the 
Commandant. We did so, and the bugle corps 
struck up. Immediately the four docile-looking 
animals scampered off with their unwilling riders 
and it was not till the end of the trumpeting that 
they returned to their positions. What will happen 
when we use our rifles, or a battery of artillery hap- 
pens to be near by? We filed off to our rooms and 
did nothing much the rest of the day. Today my 
squad is guard. We got up before the reveille and 
relieved the guard of the previous day. It consists, 
for the most part, in sitting in the small white-washed 
room and relieving the sentinels. 

Three Legionnaires jumped the wall last Sun- 
day night, so we now have to post a man at the far 
end of the enclosure and look after these fellows now 
in the prison, called la boite, besides, of course, 
mounting guard at the door and saluting the passing 
officers. A better educated Pole is trying to make 
out an Italian newspaper, while a fat, beer-faced 
Milanese carpenter and an Austrian Polish miner 
are discussing the disadvantages of the stove, with 
a bearded Alsatian. The Sergeant de jour writes 
beside me. The Paymaster enters and stamps the 
letters with a rubber seal. (No stamps necessary 
for the Militaires.) "Norn de Dieu! Le clairon n'est 
pas la. Le cochon" ejaculates the former. A couple 
of soldiers are reading with interest "Lectures pour 
Tous" of the year 1909. In the far end another 
sleeps with his knees up against the pile of mat- 
tresses. A white mongrel fox-terrior runs about. 
Without one hears a passing company at drill. "Sec- 
tion Halte!" "En ligne face a gauche." If the 
Lieutenant-Colonel or anyone of higher rank ap- 
pears, or a company passes the gates, there is the 
call " Aux Armes!" and everyone jumps to the 



58 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

gun-rack, and fixing his bayonet to the muzzle, 
lines up and presents arms before the door. 

I was in the sentry-box at noon-time, and con- 
templated the open square with half-clad horse- 
chestnut trees. A middle-aged woman asked to see 
Hirsch. He came. Then a girl arrived and asked for 
Hirsch fils. He was also sent for, and there were 
two little groups who chatted in a corner outside 
the gate. Father and son in the same battalion, 
but soldats de deuxieme classe and neither the least 
soldier-like in appearance. I have guard from 6:30 
to 8:30 and from 2:30 to 4:30. 

November 2, 1914. 

Dear Alee: I am sorry to read in your letters that 
you and Papa are most down-cast. I, from this side 
of the water, do not feel in the least miserable. 
Somehow everyone expects it to be a long war, though 
they do not say so. Mr. Warren told me in Paris, 
the middle of September, that with those big guns 
Antwerp was doomed. But the great mortars are 
only good against forts and towns, and must be rein- 
forced by small guns to prevent capture, so that in a 
campaign they are of no advantage and a great im- 
pediment. The big engagement is now in progress 
about Dixmude, a final German effort to break in the 
eastern wing. The news is good but nothing de- 
cisive. The only result I would wish for is that the 
Germans should be driven out of France before the 
cold weather sets in. 

As for me, if I had joined the fellows at Rouen I 
would be at the front; but this scum of Paris streets 
will take more months of preparation, if they ever 
can be made fit for the front. More rumors of 
leaving — within a week — to Manois, with cavalry 
and artillery at Camps de Mailly and long distance 
rifle ranges; then, if we are not forgotten, to the 



THE LEGION 59 

Front. But the hardest, most desperate fighting, is 
nearly over; for even the maddened Germans can- 
not continue to be prodigal of their men, so these 
hecatombs must cease. 

There is a distant rumor this noon that the Alsa- 
tians and Belgians will be separated; also the Poles 
and Italians put in regiments apart. I don't believe 
it. When people are idle they tell stories. 

I never told you that I constantly use the alcohol 
lamp to cook with, since it all fits in my gamelle, 
so I can take it away to the next camp. I have the 
sewing materials and the bandages. From every 
side — Uncle Willy, Mr. Jaccaci, even Mme. Bristle — 
they have given me things, more than I can use. 

Love to Papa and Chanler. 

Rueil, November 17, 1914. 
Dear Alee: I am writing in a little patisserie such 
as one imagines on the French stage, — all white and 
very small. Round marble tables and a large ac- 
count book with a little lady behind it and a potted 
evergreen — the very regular, stereotyped kind. Here 
I came with Heredia and Dessauer last night, and 
drank delicious chocolate. (Dessauer is with me 
tonight, reading Tristan and Isolde.) We smoked 
the wondrous cigars Mr. Bliss had given me; and 
Heredia, in his soft but halting French, told us of 
the people of Spain — their customs and their dances 
— till we forgot the outside world and only the 
strokes of the church clock told us it was eight. 
Except for our costumes, it was a most perfect 
evening of peace and repose. Well, here is where 
my martial spirit leads me. My discomforts are 
very small at the caserne now, for I have got the 
bed next the window which I open at night and close 
before it is noticed at the reveille. For the last 
couple of days my reading has been divided between 



6o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Hamlet and the Infantry Manual. I borrowed the 
former second or third hand from the owner; but lo! 
the half of the pages were uncut. I feel very blue 
about once in three days at doing so little. So far 
as the drudgery goes I am perfectly situated, for I do 
not do the chores (corvees) and have not the bother 
of reporting and swearing at people. 

Rueil, November 27, 1914. 
Dear Alee: . . . For the third time my fate was 
weighed in the balance about the mitrailleuse. It 
seemed that they were as anxious to have me as 
my Captain was to keep me. I was led up before 
the Commandant with the Captains sitting by and 
my name read out with four or five others. My 
Captain came over to me and asked me if I was not 
happy, and why did I want to go? I mumbled, hesi- 
tated and said I understood the mitrailleuse to be 
more exciting, etc. He did not like that; but I 
thought of a phrase that Uncle Willy suggested to 
me to say, "It is more dangerous." That was like 
a magic word: he could not refuse me now. He gave 
me to the Lieutenant with his blessing and relieved 
himself before the assembled officers in rich French 
phrases, as "If only all the men were like him!" 
"This is the best of my Company," etc. etc. Mean- 
while I stood on one foot and looked at the floor, 
bashful as sweet sixteen. I have been made pointer 
which is the best position next chef de piece. 

Cafe de la Place, Laigneville (Oise), 

November 30, 1914. 
Dear Alee: The third evening of the march. At 
last a civilized house to sleep in! It is a dance-hall 
adjoining this cafe. We are now in country traversed 
by Germans, and passed through Creil on a pontoon 
bridge and saw twenty odd houses in ruins — the 



THE LEGION 61 

result of German shells. Beginning Friday night, 
everybody gay with vim; and looking out on the 
moonlit parade ground we all heard "La Dame 
Blanche" — a bugle call to put lights out, and it ap- 
peared very beautiful when what we are used to 
hearing is the dinner call, "Sergeant de Jour" etc. 

We arrived at Ecouen after a long and hungry 
journey at twilight, and looked up at the Chateau. 
After a long wait we were told to take the pieces 
and ammunition up to the Chateau, which we did 
by a winding route through gardens and passage- 
ways, up steps and along parapets. Unfortunately 
the quarters were very bad and we had to walk a 
kilometre and a half to get our grub. I thought we 
were, of course, worse off than the rest, since we are 
not attached permanently to any one of the three 
battalions nor have we been given a cuisine roulante, 
but it appears everyone fares equally badly. I 
spoke to a driver to-day: "I slept in the wagon, and 
the horses sous les belles etoiles" 

Well, yesterday we marched only a short distance; 
but it was perhaps just as tiring because of stops of 
uncertain duration. We were billeted this time in 
a typical, dirty farm. The ranks in the yard, and 
ourselves in the barn. Plenty of straw, but we 
didn't arrive till twilight again and left at dawn 
(seven), and since everything was very inflammable, 
only one candle lantern for the fifty-nine bons hommes. 
You can imagine the comforts. 

All about me now they are writing post-cards for 
those of us who neither read nor write. They are 
having a good deal of fun out of them. "Nous ne 
sommes pas maintenant si loin de la ligne de feu, mais 
c'est moins chaud que voire cceur." Two others are 
discussing how a third's name is spelt, the last being 
quite ignorant. Matter finally settled by consulting 
a Sergeant's list. From now on we are going to 



62 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

fetch our vivres raw and cook them ourselves. Since 
the Italians are good cooks I expect it will be good. 
I must rush off to pack up my bag, since we leave 
early in the morning. Passing through Chantilly, 
General Joffre was said to have been about to review 
us, but he never showed up, though a professor-like- 
looking General regarded us. 

Your loving 

Victor. 

December I, 1914. 

Dear Alee: Twenty-eight kilometres now, at St. 
Juste. We heard cannon twice today. The country 
changed on leaving Clermont and became slightly 
rolling plains. It rained most of the day but a slight 
drizzle of the morning suddenly became a heavy 
rain at the hour of the Grande Halte. " II faut se 
debrouiller" you can bet, to " debattre les mulets" 
besides being avant garde, (i. e. putting the guns in 
position), then make our cafe and warm up some 
beans we had cooked the night before. Well, of 
course we had to abattre the mules before the water 
boiled, the fire having gone out twice; but our sec- 
tion having missed our coffee two days on end for 
the same reason, left the gamelle on the fire and did 
drink the coffee although no time to strain it. The 
boite de linge was given out and eaten with the rest, 
so we marched on happily, singing "La Guerre est 
declaree" and so impressed the Colonel, that he is 
putting us at the tete to-morrow. Our Sergeant went 
ahead and got us another salle de danse. We have 
had to fight to get straw, but I rather think we have 
enough at last. It's odd; we were exceedingly well 
received at the last place; — "Will you have some 
more straw?" etc. We cooked our soup in the court, 
but all the smoke blew up into the room. 

We all are in the best of health — barring a ser- 



THE LEGION 63 

geant with the colors — but the three battalions are 
almost half laid up, I fear, for they carry their 
sacks, and you can imagine what even the most 
modest can scrape together in three months' waiting, 
to take as necessities to the tranchees. It is sad 
seeing them fall, and being gathered up in requisi- 
tioned dump-carts at the tail of each battalion. 

I am too sleepy for description, but from what I 
see of trenches now, the modern warfare tries to 
imitate nature. Imitation manure-piles and hay 
or straw stacks are all over. We leave tomorrow at 
eight for Montdidier, only seventeen kilometres. 
Neither St. Juste nor Alost suffered from German 
occupation. 

December 3rd, 1914. 

Dear Papa: Well, the authorities seem to be 
hustling us, unfit though we be, to some tranchees, 
where we shall probably remain till the Allies besiege 
Berlin. We have been marching six days now, 
alternating a thirty kilometres march with one 
about seventeen. It is really remarkable how little 
of the war one sees even here within about ten kilo- 
metres of the enemy. We are now in a petit Patelin 
which, of course, was visited by the Germans, and 
absolutely deserted by the inhabitants at the time. 
Half the people have come back; but many here now 
are not natives and we are warned against them as 
being spies. No signs of occupation, except a broken 
door here and there and notices in red and white 
chalk where officers were quartered. Aside from the 
discomfort of sleeping in tramps' rests, standing 
about for orders, and doing without regular meals 
I rather enjoy the ballade (marching song) and 
the changing landscape. 

One would almost have thought we had been 
brought on purpose by ways where few signs of 



64 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

warfare existed. I know from eye-witnesses as near 
as Soissons and Senlis the marks of war, but one 
felt much nearer the war back at Chantilly with 
soldiers and generals sauntering about. I even saw 
a picturesque Cossack officer. Gray auto-vans with 
Ravitaillement de 2me Echelon and the like on them. 
At Creil we saw a dozen wrecked houses; but one 
gets no better impression by being on the scene than 
by looking at the post-cards strung up in the Boule- 
vards at Paris. Of course one sees Territorials every- 
where, but not in any greater numbers than about 
the Banlieue de Paris. Now and then we see a Red 
Cross auto come by. Yesterday we saw several 
freight trains made over into Red Cross, and had a 
talk with wounded out of the window of a Hospital 
of contagious diseases at the long wait before enter- 
ing Montdidier. 

All of the people who have visited the front speak 
of the endless lines of troops hours before getting to 
their destination. Well, there is nothing of this 
sort where we have been. Beard dirty Territorials 
at railroad crossings and gendarmeries. Today is 
the first time we have seen the Active. At Pierre- 
fonds there were some Artillery. Horses and men 
housed in straw shelters which resembled the negro 
huts at the Jardin d'Acclimatation. A few gun 
carriages at the edge of the woods hidden by turf. 
Yesterday a Taube was visible at the horizon and 
those with glasses claimed to see puffs of smoke 
(shells) about it. 

I am writing in a small cafe, filthy and full of 
soldiers, smoke but little else. Nothing to be had 
in the village to eat; no chocolate, cheese, tobacco 
or matches. The old woman threatens to close up 
because men kick at white wine being sold at vingt 
deux sous le litre, eight and nine being the usual price. 

It is a small but picturesque village, a little torchon 



THE LEGION 65 

(torchis) and woodwork but next to no stone. Very 
picturesque with its steeples, gables, crooked streets 
and horse ponds, — but heavy with mud and no 
street-lights. We saw today for the first time the 
Paris motor busses, now provision wagons. Love to 
all. 

Your loving 

Victor. 

Dec. 9 — near Caix. 

Dear Alee: We have been having a most healthy 
and harmless existence. We are (first and third 
battalion and mitrail) living in the hamlet surround- 
ing a tumbled down eighteenth century brick cha- 
teau. A bedraggled old woman appears before the 
side-door and asks the legionnaires not to chase the 
chickens and please to wash the steps. A contro- 
versy rages as to whether she is the Marquise or the 
house-keeper, but the odds lie now in favor of the 
former opinion. 

No stone in the country side to speak of, so every 
building here is either built of red brick or of torchis, 
the peaks or gables of which are picturesquely 
steepled and the tile roofs green with moss. We hear 
the distant roll of cannon almost all day long, but so 
low and soft, like the distant rumbling of thunder, 
that unless there is some one to nudge one, it is 
scarcely perceptible. 

Two days running, yesterday and the preceding, 
we went to the east of Caix where the zigzag line of 
trenches diagonals off to the first line, some six 
kilometres off. There the double roll of the soixante 
quinzes was remarkably distinct. It was a flat un- 
dulating plain, little patches of trees in the back- 
ground and a steeple or chimney silhouetted in the far 
distance. The trenches were, of course, unoccupied, 
but except for roofing in parts — ready. 



66 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Moncour, 28 Kilometres east of Amiens. 

The week of walking was followed by a week in 
the little feudal village. I got the colic at Mazieres 
(It's not the one you see on the map.) — all the mitrail 
did, from eating bad beans; so we entered the hamlet 
rather down-cast. Picardie is very flat; but still the 
land rolls a little, and in the hollows are jolly primi- 
tive villages. For two days we were warned that we 
might leave any minute: then last night the order 
came that we were to depart at 2:30 A. M. 

It poured all yesterday and last evening, so you 
can imagine we went to sleep in our hole of chaff and 
straw behind the mules with no great relish for the 
coming tramp. Well, we were routed out at 1 :30, 
gathered up our muskets, bayonets, etc., and rushed 
into the fray to load the mules. My kepi lost in the 
straw as usual. Great strife among the militaires, 
two being drunk, and having remained in the straw. 
(We "touched" our pay, ten sous, yesterday. How 
a man gets drunk on that I don't see, yet they 
manage to.) The rain had stopped. A waning moon 
peeped out from time to time, — fuzzy, as with hoar 
frost in the mist. We started, after a wait of course, 
between the first and third battalions on a very 
muddy road. Half the time we walked in single file 
to avoid the deep mud along flat stretches of country, 
almost no trees, from time to time a long faint flash 
of cannon on the horizon, and twice or thrice the 
flash of great search-lights. We smoked and talked 
and watched the bobbing ears of the patient mules. 
I chatted most of the time with Rader, on Canada, 
the Pacific, and flying. I forgot to tell you that 
Rader is an American aviator, who got shifted as a 
common soldier, although he is well known, and ap- 
plied as aviator. Naturally he was very bored to 
learn demitour droite. I found him four days ago 
and by great fortune and a little pressure had him 



THE LEGION 67 

brought into my piece of the mitrailleuse. He has 
earned his way since seventeen, but I find it difficult 
to teach him French. After traversing a village with 
a small church perched on the side hill, saw a few 
artillery sentinels with their floppy soft hats. (Here- 
dia says they are a Basque costume hat.) We had a 
long wait outside this town and entered it by broad 
daylight. I am writing now in a little cottage, — 
two rooms, kitchen-dining-room, and bed-room. In 
the living room where I am is the usual upright loom, 
half wood, half steel, the little stove and coffee-pot 
and an old woman who relates the German invasion, 
and the battle of the 44th of the line against them 
(on the hill to the east). The battle on the hill is 
graphically described, while the little daughter mends 
my torn blue overalls and a boy of six, with a large 
stomach, eats sugared bread. The German Corporal 
who lodged (here) a day and spoke French said he 
had been in Paris, and explained that France had 
started the war. He rummaged in their effects but 
they had the good fortune to escape pillage. The 
uncared for French wounded were found in the 
fields nearly a week after. The enormous number of 
troops that poured toward Paris the day after the 
battle, and the flying return of the remnant a few 
days later — all this, and the quaint drawl, from a 
slight provincial accent, make the theatre of the war 
here more real to me than before. Rumor varies as to 
our stay here. The mitrailleuses are to be separated 
sooner or later to join a Grenoble regiment, so I shall 
see more of Frenchmen. On account of the nearness 
of going under fire and my inexperience, I am to 
start as aide-chargeur of the piece (much less danger- 
ous, if you want to know) and work my way up. Love 
to Papa, Conrad and Chanler. 

Your loving, 

Victor. 



68 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Monday Dec. 21, 1914. 

(Postmarked Bray) 

Dear Papa: I am staying in this little town for the 
second time. Its aspect is not the same as when we 
arrived with our mules a week ago. Imagine a dozen 
or twenty houses on both sides of a road. On the 
southwest, directly behind, rises the grassy plateau 
abruptly, while on the other a long double row of 
poplars borders a canal. In time of peace it must 
have been a typical village of the country side, 
house, barn, stables and shed forming a square, 
round a dirty courtyard and repeated half a dozen 
times. On one side of the road a new brick church 
with a central tower. A small factory or two, I should 
judge. Across the bridge of the canal the resplen- 
dent house of the Mayor which though only of one 
storey, has a slate roof instead of the picturesque 
tile, a garden in front, and a corrugated tin barn 
behind. On my arrival guns boomed in the distance. 
The muddy street was paved with a narrow, crooked 
sidewalk, cluttered with the bricks of ruined houses. 
Empty gables yawned at the sky as did barns with 
rafters stripped of tiles. I wandered to a wall punc- 
tured with balls in search of affiches. All were tat- 
tered and almost unrecognizable; but no! an official 
communique dated August 23 rd announcing French 
successes in Lorraine and Haute Alsace. A rude but 
formidable barricade of bricks and timbers barred the 
view in front of the church, its formal belfry marred 
with a great gash below the spire. I wondered why the 
bomb-hole was on the western side. Surely it was not 
the work of a French gun. Beyond the barricade, not 
ten yards, green barn doors swinging from the ruined 
basement of a factory. Ahead the way wound around 
a curve and the irregular firecracker pop of German 
steel bullets told the direction of the enemv. The 



THE LEGION 69 

Mayor's house near where we stopped is a forlorn 
ruin now. Its fine slate roof most mangy from 
a bomb. Before it is the garden; under a rude sign- 
board rests a Prussian Lieutenant born in '92. Be- 
hind a bomb has burst, scarring most ruthlessly 
the papier-mache imitation brick side walls, and giv- 
ing to the tin barn a sieve-like appearance. I walked 
up the street yesterday and asked about the steeple. 
There was a German machine there till the '75 dis- 
lodged it, and that covered ditch was dug by Germans 
while under fire from the barricade. It seemed incred- 
ible, it was so near. We did not spend the night 
at Eclusier; but under cover of darkness marched, 
mitrailleuse on shoulder, to Frise, four kilometres 
under the German fire. The journey was too fatigu- 
ing to enjoy the sounds of balls and lightning-like 
flashes of distant artillery. We marched in single 
file, in silence, with all our traps, and cartridge boxes 
besides (three hundred each). No lights in any 
houses, though behind the boarded windows some- 
times a sound of voices. Arrived at a barn we fell 
down in some rank hay and tried to sleep on the spot 
where we lay, not a match lighted to show the space. 
It rained and water fell on us. The French trenches 
we thought must be very near — almost at hand. 
We heard the crack so distinctly sometimes, — little 
knowing that that was the sound of German steel- 
clothed ball striking beside us. The morning showed 
a desolate courtyard, a barn or so with half the tim- 
bers gone, the farmhouse vaunting a stump of chim- 
ney and the floor of the second storey, tile roof here 
and there still remaining. A couple of carts, one 
heavy, with grass sprouting on it; the other light, 
and put out of commission by having its shafts and 
spokes cut. Through the back window of the low 
shed, we peeked up the hill. Three lines of French 
trenches surmounted by the German on the crest. 



70 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

The cook had gone up to the kitchen of the 30th some 
houses up the street. He needed wood: there were 
two gaps open to fire, but otherwise no danger. I 
went with the aide cuisinier. An ample courtyard 
with a pump, a snug farmhouse on the right, and 
beyond a manure-pile, a large shed. A group of 
soldiers smoking, sleepily watching blackened gamel- 
les piled on bricks in the base of a great fireplace. 
Red-bearded all of them, and speaking an odd French. 
Tent-covers and capotes drying and being cleaned 
of mud. Returning to the door from that picturesque 
but very smoky room, I looked upon the yard. Four 
or five chickens in the corner listlessly scratching. 
The roof of the shed had only half of its tiles in place. 
It must have been in range of some vital point, for 
"tick," a brick would fall, and then a small rafter-end 
dropped down. A great black turkey with a white 
mate coquetted animatedly across the further end, 
oblivious of risk. I wondered, how odd that they still 
lived uneaten by the soldiery. "Tick!" above me, 
and a slate fell from the roof. A soldier lolling at the 
door looked up as he saw a brick of the chimney next 
dislodged. I returned for more wood to a barraque, 
but being called off by Kohn to another errand I sent 
Rader, who took Samuel, a little English Jew, as 
companion. The story he told me later is more 
exciting. He walked across the five yards of open 
space, looking to the right of the hill. " So those are 

the German tren " "Sing-g-g-," and something 

tapped the stone before his feet. He made a leap for 
cover, then looked back. Samuel had tried to hasten 
too fast and had fallen headlong in the mud. A 
Sergeant of the 30th (served the campaign in Alsace, 
sergeant here three months) came out sauntering 
and "Whap!" — a bullet caught him in the behind, 
slitting his nice red pantaloons. The regular method 
of communication we soon found was by means of 



THE LEGION 71 

boyaux or ditches, which traverse the gardens, skirt 
the lanes and hedges and connecting brick wails. 
They were most disagreeable, on account of the 
amount of water in their lower levels; but still we were 
advised to use them. Going to and from the trenches 
with boards we used to stop at a cottage window, and 
an old woman would serve us cider from a pewter 
litre measure. " Va fen de cette porte!" a cama- 
rade would yell. An innocent-looking door in a brick 
wall — but examination showed a dozen freshly 
splintered holes. As we drank, "pling-g-g!" — the 
window sash rattled and the territorial drying his 
feet by the fire said on glancing up — that the brick 
wall was struck. "My husband," said the wizened- 
faced little old woman with a gray handkerchief tied 
under her chin, "was shot as he stood in the doorway 
there," and she pointed to the side of the room 
whence had just come the bullet-ring. But this 
almost continuous shooting is of little avail on ac- 
count of the elaborate system of boyaux on all 
the roads near the front, between Frise and Eclusier. 
There is a continuous one cut six feet deep in the 
chalk rock. The territorials work on it by night. 
To go to the trenches there are, of course, many 
boyaux, but the soil is very muddy and the heavy 
traffic and rain have bad effects. I got careless the 
other day and took a forsaken one as a short cut. 
My tent-cover under my arm, containing the alcohol 
lamp and bottle, encumbered me. "Pop!" the 
alcohol bottle exploded, torn in two by a bullet. 
Arrived at the trenches I took off my coat and found 
a wound in the skin of the biceps on my right arm. 
The first wounded mitrail! Nothing severe, as you 
see I write without difficulty. By the way, this 
paper is from some official book in the Mayor's 
house. I am very independent now. Theoretically 
homme de liaison between the mules at Lapidel 



72 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

and the Mitrail at Frise. I cook my food on a 
stove in the Mayor's stable, wander up to Frise with 
wine, go up to see my confreres in the trenches and 
write to you "Merry Xmas." 

Your loving, 
Victor. 



December 26, 1914. 
Dear Uncle Willy: Xmas in the trenches was in- 
teresting but not too exciting. Beginning the eve be- 
fore, " conversations " in the form of calls. " Boches," 
" qa va" etc. In response: "Bon camarade" "ciga- 
rettes," "nous boirons champagne a Paris" etc. 
Christmas morning a Russian up the line who spoke 
good German, wished them the greetings of the sea- 
son, to which the Boches responded that instead of 
nice wishes they would be very grateful to the French 
if the latter buried their compatriot who had lain 
before their trenches for the last two months. The 
Russian walked out to see if it were so, returned to 
the line, got a French officer and a truce was estab- 
lished. The burying funeral performed, a German 
Colonel distributed cigars and cigarettes and another 
German officer took a picture of the group. We, of 
course, were one half-mile down the line so did not 
see the ceremony though our Lieutenant attended. 
No shooting was interchanged all day, and last night 
absolute stillness, though we were warned to be on 
the alert. This morning, Nedime, a picturesque 
childish Turk, began again standing on the trenches 
and yelling at the opposite side. t Vesconsoledose, a 
cautious Portuguese, warned him not to expose him- 
self so, and since he spoke German made a few re- 
marks showing his head. He turned to get down 
and — fell! a bullet having entered the back of his 
skull: groans, a puddle of blood. 



THE LEGION 73 

Dec. 29, 1914. 
Dear Mr. Jaccaci: It is very quiet in the trenches 
since Christmas. We have orders not to shoot, and 
the Germans only send over about a dozen an hour to 
let us know their presence. If it was not for the rainy 
weather the life here would be at least bearable, but 
as it is, wetness combined with filth make a hard 
combination to be cheerful against. Our section, 
after two weeks of sleeping beside their picks, have 
at last got a shelter to live and sleep in; but it is far 
too shallow, barely over three feet, and just room 
enough for all the men to lie in, provided they begin 
at the corner and range along head to feet like sar- 
dines. I would have kicked for more depth, but I 
was at Eclusier, the half-way station for our provi- 
sions, for four days, while my arm got attended to. 
You see I got a stray bullet through the biceps com- 
ing up the boyau, so there was no use (in) my staying 
up in the trenches till I was fit again, in case of 
attack. Oh, Heredia got a scalp wound on the 
23rd. Very insignificant, we thought, but the in- 
firmary shipped him off with other wounded and I 
had only seen him once, and given him the papers 
you sent me, never suspecting that he would be 
shipped along in the middle of the night. 

Jan. 15, 1915. 
In another letter to Jaccaci, Victor describes the 
attempted rescue of a wounded comrade in a turnip 
field. 

. . . We were creeping towards one another and 
his long brown beard seemed to grow out of the 
ground. I crawled over him and, after another eight 
yards, reached a pile of two sacks and a body below. 
There was no one to say " Baisse-toi!" but the object 
before me was enough to keep my head down. Peytic 



74 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

came after me and, on my suggestion, brought a 
shovel. I pulled off the sacks. It was Samuel, a little 
English Israelite drafted to us from Toulouse, his 
bearded face prone in a pool of blood. Twenty feet 
away the boyaux deepened and I saw the heads and 
shoulders of two or three spectators. Peytic crawled 
over me, passed on towards the dead and we decided 
to pull towards the three men. He was to pull the 
corpse while I pushed. He turned on his haunches, the 
better to pull, and his kepi flies off — a piece of the 
skull with it. On to the body of Samuel he falls. I 
conferred with Ames, who was behind me. No means 
of getting them out from our side; so, having seen 
with our own eyes that the brancardier was un- 
mistakably finished, we returned to a deeper part 
of the passage where our sergeant ordered us back 
to our mitrailleuse, as "in case of attack" there was 
nobody to man the guns. 

Meanwhile Kohn and his companion came to the 
boyaux from the direction of the 30th, and, under the 
direction of Jacobs, their Corporal, got the bodies 
away with a rope. 

Don't let this story I tell you allow imagination to 
float that I live with balls whistling before my nose, 
eat with companions who lose their lives while col- 
lecting firewood, etc. If the trenches are well made 
and one has a reasonable sense of proportion as to 
what is dangerous and what is not, one is as safe as in 
Broadway. 

January 14, 1915. 
Dear Uncle Willy: A thousand thanks for the 
packages. They arrived the day before yesterday and 
are the fulfillment of my wildest dreams of luxury. 
For the state of filth I live in here is unbelievable, 
and the barest necessities are luxuries. I get down 
to the depot and kitchen about every two days for a 



THE LEGION 75 

face wash. Our heads get crusted with mud, — eyes 
and hair literally gluey with it. We of the second 
section have been living up in the trenches where the 
clay and top soil mix and form a slime which does not 
filter through the chalky rock lying below. Ames and 
I have finished our shelter out of our spare hours 
when not corvee de soupe, or corvee de charbon, or tak- 
ing our turn at the digging of the hoyaux. 

Well I over- worked and got dysentery; and finally 
I decided that I was over-doing this "bonne volont'e" 
of always being on hand when there were big beams 
to be carried up for the new shelter. So I asked for a 
rest and have been taking life easy for two days. My 
section is to be given a new place in the 30th. Better 
so far as position, range, etc., but we have to begin 
all over again making shelters for the pieces and our- 
selves. Luckily the earth is better to work in here. 
After the third foot you strike chalky stone which 
gets hard at four feet; so that the bottom of the 
ditch, about six feet, is pretty hard work. The most 
disagreeable part is the constant falling over of the 
top, or talus where the diggings are thrown. The 
continual rain loosens the earth and down it comes. 
A little at a time sometimes, or where the sentinels 
have made scoops to lie in, whole blocks. Then the 
German bullets whistle and the frightened Legion- 
naires cringe. (The fire always goes out after a page 
and a half. Then I step on the paper as I re-light 
the fire, which means mud.) 

I have run across several South Americans — fine 
specimens — good shots, generous, who crossed the 
ocean since the declaration to fight. And they are 
not afraid of risking their skin. One I know is going 
out tonight between the trenches to try to catch a 
Boche. We had Bavarians before us; but we don't 
know who they are now. I talked to an American 
who went out on a fool's errand to entice a German 



76 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

out last night without success. A Russian was to 
play wounded and ask help: the innocent supposition 
being that kind-hearted enemies would come out. 
They had not even begun groaning when the Ger- 
mans sent up rockets and chased the couple with 
"Moulin a cafe" (maxim guns). (Rodger, le jeune, 
ne gaston de Mont Martre, seems to have been a Jack 
at many trades. He just now interrupts me to tell 
how he learned to milk in the north, near Belgium: 
and when he left, the guns had already been there 
four days.) Kohn has been off with Garcia Calderon 
(an interesting Peruvian who is started at the Beaux 
Arts), making plans of the trenches in the vicinity 
of Frise. I would have gone but I was down with the 
fever. They climbed the steeple which lost its top 
last week, and made several amusing geometrical 
calculations yesterday afternoon. 

To return to your gifts: the fancy waistcoat is 
almost part of me. I never take it off. The peri- 
scope I tried to make but could not owing to lack of 
good glass. And the flash-light, — well, I dare not 
use it all I need for fear of finishing the batteries. 
The Schieffelin soup cubes came in very well, as I had 
knocked off the gamelle for a rest. If you can find 
more things of the sort later I should like them. 

Your affectionate nephew, 
Victor. 

January 20, 1915. 
To the same: Your periscope is the envy of every- 
one. Not even the surveying officer of the 30th has 
one half as good. The cape and sleeping-bag you 
gave me is a wonder. I used it all last night digging 
the new abri for the mitrailleuses in the rain above 
the trenches. The ideal soldier now-a-days is a 
terrassier or subway digger. I would like a sweater 
and a pair of socks; but you sent the latter, you say. 



THE LEGION 77 

A good pair of boots if it is not too difficult, 29 — 3 or 
4, is the soldier's number. I wore 10 D in America, 
but larger of course, now. 

J/an. 27th, 191 5. 
To the same: Superb candies and most welcome mag- 
azines. They are the joy of the whole section. But I 
have no letters from you. We (Kohn, Ames and my- 
self), had a few pleasant hours in our private cabin 
with our stove and books and eatables. But before we 
had made ourselves really happy we had to throw 
everything in sacks and move down to the cave of the 
30th near where we have built new abris des pieces. 
The Germans have been dropping shells near us, 
with no result, the last two days. I would like 
some whisky, and, if you can sneak it, a pocket 
camera. 

January 27, 191 5. 
(Postcard) 
Living again more or less like cattle and working 
nights. First sunny day in January it seems to me. 
With the sun things are looking up this morning, but 
it is simply appalling how hard it is to have time 
unobstructed to oneself. Eat, sleep, and warm wet 
feet is one's first preoccupation when not working 
with pick and carrying huge logs. Our salvation here 
is an abandoned phosphate factory, where we go at 
night for coal and bags, rails, etc. 

Victor Chapman. 

January 30th, 191 5. 
Dear Alee: I just received your letter with Papa's: 
and two days ago I had Papa's with Mr. Jusserand's. 
The last week has been one of toil; but we are reaping 
rest and leisure now. We moved the two pieces 
from the muddy burrows on the top of the hill to 



78 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

slightly level ground in the bosom of the 30th. Here 
we built heavy shelter for each of the pieces. I, as 
pointer, with Kohn, the Corporal, live with our piece 
where I am now writing. 

Well, from my point of view the situation is almost 
ideal, for instead of being in a hole in the ground with 
only earth, sky, and rotten beet-tops, I look out of 
the door across the parapet right over the marshy 
basin to the bluffs and Germans on the other side. 
On my right nestles in violets and pinks the little 
village of Frise with its steeple chopped off near the 
top (knocked down about the first week in January), 
a few dark evergreens and barns. But, look here, 
I don't write these letters to a large and admiring 
public. I don't consider them good enough or the 
right kind of thing. They are just what I think will 
interest you. 

The abri I am living in resembles more than any- 
thing the log-cabin of the pioneer. The usual way of 
making the shelter here is to dig a hole the size you 
want, put beams across the top, then plank, and 
finally lots of earth. Well, the ground here is very 
crumbly, so Jacob (Pawtucket-Belgian-butcher), 
conceived the brilliant idea of making the hole 
larger and putting a wall of sacks filled with earth 
on which to lay the stress of the roof. Our blessing, 
as perhaps I told you, is a factory in the swamp where 
we go by night and get charcoal sacks, boards, even 
iron-ware. The depth of the house is unfortunately 
regulated by the height of the mitrailleuse which 
has to stand up so that its barrel sweeps clear of the 
ground. Towards the enemy is a narrow window 
smaller on the outside. This we keep filled with 
loose sacks of earth. The roof is made up of first, 
continuous rows of logs, which from inside gives the 
backwoods character, on top of which flat rocks, then 
earth, then the most difficult and necessary article, 



THE LEGION 79 

corrugated tin, finally earth masking the whole. 
The weapon stands in the middle and an improvised 
bed on each side, — three or four boards and sacks 
stuffed with straw. At best, of course, it is a pig- 
pen with the clutter of everything from boites de 
confiture and newspapers, to passes-montagnes and 
peaux-de-moutons . And when these things get 
mixed with the everlasting mud which our shoes 
bring in every time it rains or snows (slush), you can 
judge for yourself. My great joy, though vexation 
occasionally, is Kohn. Though of such a lovable and 
child-like innocence of character, he is a softy from 
having been always pampered. His learning is 
immense. I picked up a New York Times last 
night, — article by G. B. Shaw. So I casually asked 
Kohn, who was entirely between the sack curtains, 
what kind of Socialist was Shaw? "A Fabianist," 
and with that he gave me an account of the growth 
of Socialism in England, how it influenced the con- 
tinents,- — the briefest kind of a sketch of the points 
of divergence between Socialism and Anarchism. 
Well, I was numbed by slumber soon and had to 
beg him to leave off till I was in a more receptive 
mood. And Political Economy is not his line, for he 
says mathematics is his specialty. With that he is 
of an artistic temperament, almost mystic, in his way 
of doing things. Heredia used to say that Kohn did 
the rude physical work as though he was performing 
a religious rite: in fact, with such devotion and zeal 
that he soon wore himself down and became more 
subject than any of us to the cliche we all suffered 
from. 

For the past two weeks we have had with us off and 
on, — see him twice or more every couple of days, — 
the charming Peruvian, Garcia-Calderon. Well, 
yesterday he came, weeping nearly, saying that his 
blamed family had got him changed into the First 



8o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Aero, — a great honor. He departed for Paris, so if he 
does go through he said he would look up Uncle 
Willy and Mr. Jaccaci. 

The trouble is with this life I find myself using up 
all my time as if T was back at Rokeby making the 
pigeon-house. One goes down into the valley and 
forages for boards, window-panes and small beams. 
The unfortunate inhabitants have at last been sent 
away, so we can buy no more chickens, geese, etc. 
At night, for Frise is right under the nose of the 
enemies' guns, we go to get coal for our stoves. The 
evacuated houses have yielded up a quantity of this. 
Pillows and feather-beds are at a premium, — I con- 
sider these a little unhealthy. 

The most boring procedure in the calm life is when 
there is an alerte. Now we know by experience that 
these alertes are bluffs. There are three kinds: at- 
tack on Albert predicted, that the French are blow- 
ing up Peronne, — or (and this is the worst), general 
German advance, because of the Kaiser's birthday, 
or the anniversary of some German victory. We 
have to stay up all night, all of us, and the sentinels 
are doubled everywhere. Yours and Papa's letters 
are a wonderful delight to me. I read and re-read 
them. Love to Conrad and Chanler. 

Your loving, 

Victor. 

February I, 1915. 
Dear Uncle Willy: Your letter and a parcel con- 
taining: one sweater, one pair boots, three pairs 
socks, two bottles paregoric pills, one tooth brush, 
one tooth paste, two pkgs. tobacco and one pair 
spectacles came to-night. So far I have received 
everything you mention except the forehead pro- 
tector. The cape sleeping-bag is fine. I put a little 
straw in the bottom and use it either for a comforter 



THE LEGION 81 

or as a bag. I really feel I have what I need, and I 
do not want to encumber myself with more stuff; for 
it only increases the likelihood of its being lost. 

My capote still holds together, and the government 
has given out more trousers. I have one heavy suit 
of underwear and two light ones; so I wear the two 
light ones while the heavy are being washed. Preston 
Ames had a coat and trousers of leather sent from 
Paris. They resist the mud and wear, but don't 
know that they are worth the trouble. What do you 
know about that waterproof black leather? Is it as 
lasting and convenient as it looks? 

Ames is the son of a man who came from Baltimore. 
His father was an engineer. The former was the 
black sheep of the family; but finally, on a bet, took 
up dentistry and later married a Uruguayan. This 
fellow has relations in Washington. Some kind of 
kidnapping story got out in the papers when he was 
taken from his American Aunt. We are now resting 
on our laurels. Second Section mount guard at 
night and do the chores. I live with Kohn in a shelter 
said to be bomb proof. Two beds and the piece 
between, with its barrel in a creneau temporarily 
stuffed with earth-bags. The Germans must know 
there is something here for they tap, tap, tap on 
the parapet now every morning. Oh! the Boches 
dropped some nice shells for our special benefit this 
afternoon, — knocked down the talu before our large 
abri. Do send a baby-camera. Trouble be damned. 
I see a doctor has one. I enclose jolly letters from 
Papa. 

Affectionately, 

Victor. 
February 2. 

After-thoughts, morning after: Mounted guard, or 
was homme de traction, from two to four. Not so 
arduous a task as it sounds. After saying "Howdy" 



82 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

to sentinel of 30th, go to make the fire in the 
main abri, and take opportunity of making myself 
toast, set water to boil, and read Aunt Elizabeth's 
letter to you. They seem to think I am dead already. 
Why, so long as I don't show myself, and " Baisse 
toi, Chapman!" in the shallow trenches, nothing 
but the small mischance of a marmite falling on 
me can do me harm. And one has time to duck 
from these German shells. They travel slower than 
sound and wait before exploding. Made myself a 
couple of cups of Russian tea (Kohn just got some), 
and slipped back to my bunk a little past four 
after waking the next man. 

February 8, 191 5. 

Dear Mr. Jaccaci: . . . Ah, the boots you sent! I 
refrained from mentioning it before. What a newly- 
discovered toy! I greased those boots. I took a 
tallow candle and melted it into the cracks. Then 
the thought occurred to me: "Why not try them?" 
Nonsense, waste of time — I can see it has the right 
mark. But curiosity overcame me and I tried. Well, 
with enormous effort I could enter my foot, but I 
immediately wanted to take it out again. I conferred 
with Platin, who sells shoe machinery. He said in 
that form I should take size 30. So I am sending you 
back the shoes; they say it can be done, and would 
you change them for a larger pair. 

But to speak of our excursion yesterday. With 
a huge leather bag, a periscope, a telemetre, and a 
pair of field glasses — not forgetting five metres of 
string, — we sallied forth. To the north, in Section 
D, we examined a tunnel leading towards the Boches. 
We peeped over the talus at the brown earthworks — 
the distance is scarcely thirty metres at that point. 
Waves of earth, bushes behind and here and there a 
waft of smoke. Round a turn a little further the 



THE LEGION 83 

Germans were dropping hand bombs. Luckily the 
present Legion is habituated. They stood about too 
much in groups and repeated sale Boche as they care- 
lessly regarded the shifting smoke of the last grenade. 
One clapped right over the talu from Kohn and me — 
so close that the dirt of the falling fell on us. Well, 
the shock is not so much the noise as the tremble of 
the air, and the danger, I judge, insignificant, unless 
it fell right on you, and even then you can get away 
if there is any place to hide. 

We walked into the fields behind the trenches and 
took distances and observations till we came to a wood, 
and then we did see what their trenches looked like. It 
was curious to observe two brown lines, with a thin 
strip of green between them, and people shovelling 
from both. Little puffs of smoke rising from both — 
and they were at war, one with the other. We found 
an "observation" and a little insignificant-looking 
"75" hidden in the wood. One would never think 
it could send such roaring shells. 

Night fell. We stopped at , had some coffee 

and cheese and downed an egg, and returned home 
by the canal in obscurity. Thanks very much for the 
chocolate. 

Yours, 

Victor. 

February 10, 1915. 
Dear Papa: The boring part of this life is that it is 
only ideal for a boy of fifteen. Constructing houses 
without boards; camping out with its hardships and 
difficulties to be overcome; generally living a happy- 
go-lucky, hand-to-mouth existence; losing things 
right and left, if they are abundant; — I have lost, I 
fear, almost entirely my perspective of the outside 
world. Now, therefore, it becomes more difficult for 
me to describe what goes on with color and interest. 



84 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

The tap, tap of Boches' bullets on the face of my abri 
in the evening affects me about as much as the lap, 
lap of little waves against the side of my sail boat. 
When out walking, corvee de charbon, one expects 
to hear the mi — eu (descending the scale) of spent 
bullets and the pistol crack of others. The rumble of 
distant artillery passes unnoticed, and but mild 
curiosity is aroused by the chug-chug-chug of a 
machine gun as of a steam-motor boat rounding a 
bend. The bursting of shells near by, of course, 
attracts comment, — more because it varies the 
monotony than anything else. The wiseacres argue 
long and earnestly as to whether it was a cent or a 
cent-cinq that fell at such a place. Any bearded 
reservist monotonously mounting guard (a couple 
of cache-nez and a peaked rubber thing about his 
head and neck, giving him the appearance of an old 
woman), will tell right away if the rumble over 
there is soixante quinze (French) or soixante-dix sept 
(German), or larger pieces, with shrewd guesses. 
The shells that fall on top of us do, to be sure, cause 
almost a sensation, not of danger so much as the fact 
that there is something happening. A distant ex- 
plosion, a low whistle growing stronger and louder, a 
flash, a blob of cotton-wool smoke growing quickly 
larger and thinner, a roar as of an emancipated genie, 
and the wind wafts away the rest. 

It's all newspaper reporters' machinations about 
shells screaming like women. The amusing ones are 
the small pieces, like 75, for their bullets travel faster 
than sound. One hears a pr-r-r-r- pung-g! And some 
black smoke floats off in front of the talu. I grab a 
periscope and wait for the next. Pr-r-r, — out of the 
earthworks opposite with the little fringe of scrubby 
bushes against the horizon there appears a brown- 
black asterisk, — a small Aurora Borealis. A sound 
or shock follows and that is all. 



THE LEGION 85 

But in this existence where every plaster wall you 
pass is scarred with bullets, every barn door seems to 
have the trade-mark, even the board I am writing on 
which was carried from Eclusier, I found yesterday 
was punctured, — amid all these signs one is as safe 
as in any other walk of life. These whistling balls 
can be compared to microbes in the air. There are 
thousands, but if the proper precautions are taken 
one is no more imperiled than from small-pox or 
pneumonia. The danger was when we first arrived. 
No one knew the lay of the land, where it was suicidal 
and where not. But now everyone knows the ropes. 

About ten days ago a young fellow (Class 14) of 
the 30th stuck his head over the trenches to see the 
effects of a "75" and was killed (ball through the 
head). Well, it was such an uncommon occurrence 
that the whole Battalion of the 30th was unnerved. 
The bearded veterans, — who had seen their comrades 
fall mangled at their sides and marched onward 
through burning villages, — they stood round in 
groups at corners of the boyaux, and I met a cortege 
of them carrying the corpse, with such an air of 
sorrow and solemnity that it hit me a dozen yards 
away. In the Legion where people are more careless, 
though we have never seen a battle, even an en- 
counter, they stow them away the way they bury 
the entrails of a cow. It's perhaps the topic of a few 
hours, such as the dropping grenades in section D. 

As for improving my character, etc., one vegetates 
here to the degree of putrefaction. The first three 
weeks we lived under awful privations, so that all 
vestiges of civilization dropped from us. Washing 
never, change of clothes rare, once a week if lucky, 
undress never, except to change. It was forbidden, 
mind you, to sleep with one's shoes off. (W T e all do 

it now, for B found a deserted store in Frise and 

brought us back sabots.) When we did get settled 



86 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

down and got a time and place to wash, everybody 
did it about three times and then, being so accus- 
tomed to live otherwise, they forgot about it soon. 
No regular hours means that nothing gets done 
properly, we often eat lunch at two and supper at 
nearly eight. Of course some one mounts guard every 
two hours all night, nevertheless we drink coffee 
leisurely at 9:30 and toast our bread before the grate. 

Everybody advised me not to take money with me 
as I should have no use for it. But it is the saving of 
our existence here. On this plan of life the first joy 
is that of eating, and now we are finding new chan- 
nels for buying edibles all the time. Cheese, jam, 
butter, tobacco, wine from Cappy, — and from the 
fields we pick vegetables by night; also the peasants 
have chickens, calves, goats and pigs, which we buy. 
Jacob is a wonder. We had roast pork yesterday, and 
this morning, head-cheese. The day before, veal. 
Jacob's manner of preparing those left-over parts of 
the animal makes them more delicious than the 
usual parts. I am sure he has educated more than 
half Rhode Island as to how to live. He told me 
how he revolutionized the butchers in Poccasset. 

Drop a line to Welch, will you please, to deposit 
$500.00 in Morgan, Harjes for me, for my letter of 
credit has expired. I still have enough, but every- 
one else's has given out. We have a few pets now 
in the shape of two goats and four small rabbits. 
Their destiny is unknown. I received your Homeric 
poems: they remind me of Hotel de la Poste, Rouen, 
where I read them first. Your Deutschland Uber 
Alles has not arrived. 

February 20, 191 5. 
Dear Uncle Willy: I have been very much cut up 
the last three days by the death of Kohn. He was 
shot beside us in front of our abri while taking ob- 




Life in the Legion. 



THE LEGION 87 

servations with field glasses of hills to the northeast. 
Un mauvais hasard. The Germans must have a new 
post of observation which takes this trench enfilade. 
Michel, a Texas negro, who came over for the war, 
was shot through the head a little farther up the line 
yesterday. Poor fellow! He had demanded to be 
put with the Senegalese because there was not enough 
fighting here. Kohn is a much greater loss to the 
Section than most people realize, for he had the 
brain of Pascal. Though only a Corporal, he advised 
the Lieutenant in many important questions and 
was, day before yesterday, — one might say, — in- 
triguing with the Commandant of the Section, to get 
the mitrailleuse sections transferred en bloc into the 
30th. He was, as his name shows, of Jewish descent; 
but not of any confessed religion himself. His wife, 
a French Argentine, is Catholic. Heredia has not 
yet returned, so I am thrown with Ames. We, the 
Mitrailleuse, hang together pretty well and are loyal 
to our chief. . . . 

Yours affectionately, 

Victor. 

February 25, 1915. 
Dear Uncle Willy: Thank you again and again for 
the parcels. Two came last night. The camera! — 
now I shall use it! But four days too late to photo- 
graph my dear companion Kohn. It is hard, in fact 
I sometimes can't yet believe he was shot. I must 
quickly take pictures of my remaining friends. I am 
sorry I have not as yet satisfied you as to the things I 
have received. I did get the flash light, but never 
received the breastplate or forehead protector. 
Thank you ever so much for the tobacco. (American, 
I suppose.) I had practically stopped smoking be- 
cause of the difficulty of making the French tobacco 
burn, and because of its strong, bitter taste; but now 



88 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

I have mixed the two and with a little rum to flavor, 
I am happy as a chimney. But above all, those let- 
ters from home were a pleasure! All about Hester's 
wedding, — wonderful! wonderful! . . . 

Your affectionate nephew, 

Victor. 

P. S. Oh, I forgot to tell you the two remaining 
peasants were evacuated from Frise, and we in- 
herited, as it were, a cow and six calves. Jacob made 
the deal: so we have milk now and shall eat veal. 

March 4, 1915. 

Dear Papa: Your letters come here often, but 
please don't be worried about me. We live a peace- 
ful life here now. Very little friction because there 
is very little to do, as in the course of the last two 
months we have rested ourselves up, tout a fait 
bien. I mourn the loss of my Corporal, Kohn as my 
intellectual companion; but otherwise I am really very 
free and well-treated, — do what I want, in reason. 

Oh, the Paris newspapers in journalistic style are 
making a reclame to find out what troops have been 
in the trenches the longest. One Regiment was no 
days; but it stated later that they had been relieved 
every four days. So some enterprising fellow is 
sending in our names since we have been here un- 
relieved since the eleventh of December, I think. 
Hence, I may become famous even as a worthless 
poilu. 

Jacob, who always has an eye out for the main 
chance, got very friendly with the three civilians, 
peasants, who were left to guard houses here. An- 
toine, from whom we bought pigs, Achille, who 
tended the cows, and Abraham, his friend. Jacob 
had asked early in their acquaintance, whether 
Achille could sell him any wine or spirits. With a 



THE LEGION 89 

sad face the latter replied he had only cider and that 
sour. Well, about a month ago Jacob went every 
day for milk. He found Achille and Antoine quite 
tipsy, and they offered to sell him four bottles — 
they only had five — at 2fr. 50 apiece. A very tall 
price, thought Jacob, but he would bring some 
prospective buyers to taste it on the following day. 
Next afternoon Platine and Jacob and Rodger (to 
carry a pig we were getting), and I went to taste the 
wine. Achille opened a bottle for us to taste which 
we rapidly drank. We argued a little, but finally 
took four bottles, being careful not to allow him to 
pass off on us one small one. Then, to celebrate the 
bargain, we drank another. On our way to get the 
pig we noticed a patch of freshly turned earth in the 
garden back of the farm. Jacob put two and two 
together and that night sent Rodger and Bianchi 
to look in the hole. (The peasants are not allowed to 
go out after dark.) They found nothing; but the 
next night Jacob went and brought back six or seven 
bottles. The moral Jacob draws is "no crime to steal 
from a thief." 

The Germans have been mining in our old position. 
This morning they met the French who were also 
mining. They claim one German, but they left a 
man in the hole. The Captain of 1st Company and 
Commandant come up and stand about discussing 
what ought to be done. Of course the first thing the 
Germans did was to set off a mine. An Adjutant got 
badly hurt; but the other officers were only well- 
smashed with ground. Now we are on tenter-hooks 
lest they try an attack. I just went to supper, some 
one came rushing in — " Alette I" and helter skelter 
we mount our pieces! It was nothing but a few 
Germans shooting at a fuse (rocket.) 

Uncle Willy sent me a steel cuirasse guaranteed 
proof against bullets at 5 yards. I stuck it up beside 



9 o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

my cabin and immediately crash! snap! snap! Three 
good holes ripped in it. I should think tfte merchant 
who puts that on the market should be prosecuted. 
Think of the hundreds and thousands of poor wives 
who may buy that worthless tin and send it by mail 
to their husbands. 

The Post. Best love to all. 
Your loving, 

Victor. 

March 8, 1915. 

Dear Papa: Still here in the trenches! Nothing 
has changed in our position since Christmas, I might 
say. We vegetate and vegetate. Minor incidents 
occur around us. The French, or rather the Legion- 
naires, who were mining, ran into the Germans who 
were doing the same. I think I told you. The day 
after making a couple more tunnels we had the good 
sense to blow them up before the Germans set off 
theirs. Hence we have been four or five in the abri 
alerte all afternoon. The French guns appear to 
have silenced the bothersome Boches' battery which 
used to drop marmites on Cappy, the town in our 
rear where the mules of the mitrailleuse are, and 
where our Regiment and a couple of others go to 
repos. My friends in the Companies told me it was 
startling how well informed the Germans were. 

A week ago Sunday the band was due to play at 
three o'clock; at 3:15 the first piece was scarcely 
finished — zizz, boom! Everyone rushed for the 
cellars! Next morning our General of Brigade was 
to have a review at 10 o'clock. Every battalion 
turned out in its best and was lined up in the street. 
(I think there is only one.) Immediately shells began 
falling. Uncle Willy's last parting blessing to me was 
a letter in which he told me to write Norman Prince 
at Pau, where he is getting up an American aviation. 



THE LEGION 91 

I don't know what will come of it. Probably there 
will be more trouble than I am worth to get me out of 
here. I can, of course, stick to this job to the bitter 
end. From the point of view of the soldier (who 
looks after comfort) and not being embete, I am 
tout a fait bien here, — on splendid terms with every- 
one practically, exempt from service, — for though 
no one says it, the nouveaux who have come to fill 
out our vacancies do most of the necessary chores, — 
and very comfortably installed. (My mind seems to 
run on this theme. I suspect I wrote you before.) 

The characters here and the scenery are my prin- 
cipal interests. I shall describe the men of our Sec- 
tion to you beginning with the more picturesque 
characters. There was Nedim, Nedim Bey, a 
Turk, — a black heavy-faced Turk, and a typical 
Asiatic. He always wore two passes-montagnes, one 
pulled down round his chin so that his grizzled un- 
kempt beard and nose protruded through. I believe 
he had been sent by the Turkish Government to 
study, and had worked in the French cannon fac- 
tories. At any rate the Lieutenant had a high ad- 
miration for him which no one could understand. 
His French was wonderful! The article did not exist, 
but he was fond of the preposition de; as, mon de 
-pain. He got permission at both places to build a 
separate hole for himself. After working night and 
day till it was finished he would light a roaring fire 
and sleep in an atmosphere warm enough to boil 
an egg. At the other position he had a dug-out 
about five feet long by two high, with a grate fire at 
the end of it. And he slept with his head against the 
fireplace! His love for fire resulted in his burning 
ends and patches of all his clothes, and about his 
abri were always strewn picees of burnt sacks. 

I recall up at that dire hole, our first abri, one day 
no water for the coffee! But the sceau had been 



92 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

monie. Inquiry showed that Nedim had taken 
settlement un quart to put out a fire in his damned abri! 
He was most renowned for his having a rather wan- 
ton showy rashness, and for the quantity of car- 
tridges he burnt. Being the pet dog of the Lieuten- 
ant, he got all the cartridges he wanted from the 
30th, from the infirmary, etc. Whenever an officer 
would pass, he would burn a few. Of a night he shot 
often as many as 150. "7/ va etre cite a V order du 
jour a force de tirer sur la lune" it was whispered. 
He made an indestructible creneau from which he 
pumped shot. Inevitably the Germans soon located 
it and the other day he was hit in the head and 
evacuated. 

Next comes Cluny, our little Portuguese sea- 
Captain. Dark, weather-beaten, steel-eyeglasses 
and a soft moustache. His French also is admirable. 
He spouts away most interestingly about ships and 
the sea, but it is difficult to follow for every third 
word is Portuguese. My, how he loves his coffee! 
He has a mania for how it shall be made. He goes 
up in the air and thinks the world's agin 'im, very 
easily. He hates eels for instance, and was so dis- 
gusted when he saw some the other day in our re- 
union abri that he threw his gamelle over the talu. 
He has inherited Nedim's last abri and the first thing 
he did was to cut a hole in the sack earth-wall to let 
out the gases from the stove. His stories of the sea 
are most absorbing: for he has crossed the ocean as 
captain of a sailing ship. 

Post. 

Your loving, 

Victor. 

March 13, 1915. 
Dear Mr. Jaccaci: Yesterday afternoon the Ger- 
mans set off a mine before our trenches — a slight 



THE LEGION 93 

earthquake, followed by a great eruption of earth 
and continuing like a geyser for what appeared some 
time. Then clouds of smoke and the falling of chunks 
of earth. As you may imagine, a first class alette 
followed and we remained on the qui vive all night. 
This morning, bombardment of heavy artillery of 
the trenches opposite, to pay them back for the large 
bombs they dropped on our trenches during the night. 
Now all is quiet again and one hears the happy sky- 
larks overhead in the mist. 

Your copy of Papa's book came last night, and I 
read — what luxury! — through the night watches. 
Papa sent me a copy, he said, long ago, but it has 
never come. My only regret is that Kohn was not 
here to enjoy it with me, for he must have known 
those demented professors, all at least by reputation, 
for he studied five years in Berlin at gymnasiums, etc. 

Uncle Willie's last letter spoke of a Norman Prince, 
who was getting up an American Aero Corps at Pau, 
and told me to write him. This I did. What do you 
hear about it? I would feel like an embusque if the 
mitrailleuse company returns on the firing line, but I 
doubt it. 

Keep your health and feed the children well for 
me. My regards to Bliss. 

Your affectionate, 
Victor Chapman. 

March 14, 191 5, 
Cabin of Mitraille. 
Dear Papa: As I remember, my last letter was one 
gloomy groan. I must have had a stomach-ache. 
We are very happy up here now because everyone 
does his duty, things run smoothly and there is very 
little scolding. The Germans blew up a big mine 
farther up the hill from us. A shock, a fountain or 
geyser of earth accompanied by low growling, then 



94 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

clouds of smoke and the patter, patter of falling 
debris. A real alerte we had, you may be sure; but the 
Boches saw they had rate the coup, having only blown 
up the ground in front of the trenches, and did not 
attack. We stayed an hour and a half behind the 
half-open creneau in the late afternoon, hearing not 
as much as a musket crack; only the skylarks sing- 
ing. 

Yesterday the French provoked the German 
batteries with a few heavy guns. The latter took 
vengeance on us and we had the most heavy bom- 
bardment that I have so far experienced. Tremen- 
dous waste of ammunition and quite harmless. After 
they had tired of sprinkling the trenches and the 
surroundings here, they concentrated on Frise. From 
our boyaux we enjoyed the spectacle. They did 
their best to burn the whole place down, — queer 
shells which exploded like rockets and sent off trailing 
fuses. They did succeed in starting a fire the other 
side of Cunal in Antoine's farm (where we bought the 
pigs), and a couple of buildings burnt brightly all 
night. 

I am happy to say that, in this trench warfare, we, 
the mitraille, for our amusement, are getting the best 
of the Germans opposite. Up to now they, having 
the higher and better situation, have dominated our 
trenches with their creneaux, and demolished all the 
creneaux the 30th or the Legion have put in. We 
have by means of cast iron pipes (gutter drains from 
Frise), arrived at a simple and efficient system of 
smashing theirs all to pieces now. Having well 
located the direction of a certain hostile creneau by 
day we put in the pipe opposite at night. The 
other end is scarcely visible through the talu. Then 
systematically we empty cartridges into it till the 
wooden support is cut and the hole plugged with 
stones. The principal feature is that the only spot 



THE LEGION 95 

from which you can be attacked is the creneau you 
are already shooting into, and their favorite resort of 
cross fire is ineffective. In the last three days we 
have destroyed the 19 creneaux opposite. 

Ames just came in from his guard in the height of 
spirits. Three or four of them had given a few feu de 
salve and the Germans, getting nervous, sent up a 
rocket. The moment it burst he shot it, thus ex- 
tinguishing it. The Germans do have a certain sense 
of humor though. They have a stick with straw on 
the end which they wave behind the creneau, now 
up and down, now sideways. 

March 15. 
I continue to run across amusing characters. A 
Bedouin who ran away from his native land because 
he killed the chief. He travelled all through north 
Africa and paid his way because he could read the 
Koran, and is here because a French officer saved his 
life when he had the small-pox; whereupon he swore 
to serve France in her next war. Ames talks Spanish 
to him; he knows very little French. There is a very 
powerful Catalonian called Ligio who is famous for 
doing what he damn pleases and sends the Lieuten- 
ant to hell when he is reprimanded. All his friends 
pray that he won't be passed to the conseil de guerre, 
but in the meanwhile he is cock of the roost in his 
section. There is a Roman painter named Pergola 
who ran away from Rome because he so dreaded the 
military service. They say he has talent, and he 
certainly seems to be a man of ideals and hard work. 
I found mounting guard beside my abri, a typical 
Russian Jew type, — large, hooked nose, black hair 
and beard, small eyes, but not lean, — fat and well- 
favored, like a Berkshire hog. An artist he said he 
was, but since he seemed to consider the landscape 
chill and dirty in color, I wondered. He is one of 



96 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

those creatures of Paul Poiret who concocts those 
decorations and color complications which yell like 
cayenne pepper. 

. I got a copy of your Deutschland Uber Alles from 
Jaccaci. Capital ! I had seen one or two of those fool 
remarks, but not by any means the greater part. I 
hope it sells, for it shows up their craziness so won- 
derfully well. I have been reading my Galsworthy 
again, — a collection of English verse by a French- 
man, bad as a selection of verse, but still interesting, 
a short story by Alfred de Vigny, and your Homeric 
Scenes. 

Strange and violent ends some of the books of 
Frise have come to. Outside our cabin door I found, 
for cleaning the gamelles, the pages of the Swiss 
Family Robinson in French; while yesterday, before 
another cabin, I found pages of Quentin Durward, 
also in French. British authors are not the only 
sufferers, however. The third volume, yet intact, 
except the back cover, of the Meditations of St. 
Ignatius is placed over the stove for lighting pipes. 
Tell Alee that the only thing which keeps me from 
going out dark nights into the Boche trenches is that 
I know it would pain her if I got needlessly zigue. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Trenches, Frise, 
March 17, 1915. 
Dear Conrad: I hear from Papa that you now write 
poems to the Tortoise almost daily! It does not 
follow, however, that you can criticise my spelling or 
punctuation, for I am a privileged character. I am 
sitting outside my cabin with all my bedclothes, etc., 
"marche aux guenilles" on the tain around me. In 
the valley before me the German balls re-echo like 
breaking waves along a rocky coast. Now and then 



THE LEGION 97 

the roll of a distant cannon swells up. But yesterday 
it was different. Ames and I, sleeping late after 
our night watches, both felt our cabin shake, and 
jumping to our feet at the same moment we cleared 
the deck for action and opened the half-stuffed 
creneau. Almost all the morning an intermittent but 
severe bombardment. Rumors came in fast of a 
mine explosion in Section D. This time it appeared 
the Germans really had done damage. The trenches 
were evacuated. A Spanish Sergeant saw one of his 
men knocked unconscious over the talu, calmly got 
up with a pick-axe, dug him out and pushed him into 
the trench. Unfortunately just as he was stepping 
back a ball went through his head. There were 
something like twenty-five wounded and five killed 
from that mine. The mitrailleuse up in that section, 
they say, will be porte a Vordre du jour because it 
did not run away. A friend of Ames, an Argentine, 
came over for the war, was killed by a shell. So Ames 
went down to see about burying him. Though a most 
sluggish, undemonstrative person he came back much 
impressed with the poste-de-secours atmosphere. A 
score of wounded and dying but no corpses. Then 
he noticed a doctor come out of a little cave in the 
side-hill back of the house, and through the door he 
saw his friend with half a dozen others. Out in the 
little cemetery he saw a man gaping vacantly at the 
tombs. When spoken to all he answered was: "How 
did I escape? How did I? How did I?" The more 
I see in this war the more impressed I am that horse 
sense and calm are very rare qualities. A little later 
I undressed a man I found running up and down the 
boyaux shouting "So moru." (Portuguese, I believe.) 
A wall made of earth-bags had leaked a bullet 
through, which got him in the chest well below the 
heart. Very painful indeed, I am sure, but a man 
does not run about when he is dying. You can see by 



98 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

my attitude and manner of talking that I also am 
getting calm and unfeeling to this harrowing side of 
the game. One has to "take them (the horrors) 
lightly" for otherwise the life would be an unbearable 
nightmare. 

The upshot of yesterday's activity was that the 
Legion was relieved at three o'clock this morning and 
the 30th has replaced them in the whole section. 
(A. B. C. and D.) What will happen to them I don't 
know. We, the mitraille, hope to be attached to the 
30th, but of course the Colonel of the 3 me Regiment 
de Marc he de VEtt anger wants to keep us. It is a very 
pleasant sensation, now that the buds are out and 
there are signs of .spring, to be waked by our friends of 
the passing battalion. A happy visit which brings 
home the fact one already knows of the change of 
men. While I write the fellow beside me looks at a 
soldier beside the canal who hides behind a tree from 
German bullets. Drss-ss-ss Chung! A bomb. And 
we have just been shoved into the abri. Latest news 
has it the fellow is wounded in the leg. Some one 
has gone to help him. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

P. S. I did have a bullet go through my arm. But 
I would not know it now, save for the scar. 

[The articles referred to at the close of the following 
letter appeared in newspapers all over the United 
States, and gave Victor's parents great satisfaction. 
They were high-colored, journalistic sketches, in 
which Victor invariably appeared as the hero, the 
rescuer, the resourceful stage person. They had 
about them that false glare of literature which the 
public loves, and which the soldier hates; and I used 
to forward them to Victor in order to annoy him. 



THE LEGION 99 

He could not be expected to understand that the 
glamor, limelight and bad taste in them were the 
conventions of a certain kind of newspaper work. — 
Editor.] 

En repos, April 12, 191 5. 
Dear Papa: I have been puzzled lately as to 
whether you were sailing or not; but a postal from 
Jaccaci seems to confirm the idea that you are. I 
ask myself time and again whether I am still doing 
all I can here and getting out of it the uttermost. 
Also whether I would be better elsewhere. I am 
very tempted to catch at any straw to put myself in 
a position where I can do more than vegetate and 
make myself proficient in the wily art of breaking the 
rules without being caught as a school boy. But 
then I think of my allegiance to my Captain and to 
my comrades, my Sergeant and my Corporal. They 
have all been very fair to me. And how I lately 

cursed as embusques. "Am I also trying to be 

the same?" I think! It's only natural that one 
should be more intellectually bored and fatigued en 
repos than in the trenches where one is filling at 
least a potential function. "In case of attack" one 
would be of use. I suppose, perhaps, what I crave is 
intercourse. It takes two to enjoy the scene, to 
study the character of the soldiers, etc., not so much 
the first day or the second, but the hundred and 
second. Very egotistic to go on talking about my- 
self, but it's an outlet. I go and see Farnsworth daily 
and catch myself making estimates as to how he 
keeps up his interest. But then he is more self- 
sufficient and self-satisfied; — besides he does have 
Sokona to talk to. Perhaps I did not mention that 
Farnsworth came up with the re-inforcements along 
in February. I met him as an undergraduate at 
Harvard (in '12). Beans by inheritance but a wan- 



ioo LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

derer by choice. T must say I come back feeling 
gayer after seeing him. Perhaps after all I am always 
doomed to be unhappy for I have the insight not 
to be content with things as they are and lack the 
necessary force, or push, to make them otherwise. 
I rather excuse myself in this case a little, since army 
people, juniors especially, "know it all." You must 
take my letters with a pinch of salt, as I think I re- 
marked to Mr. Jaccaci, for I generally write in a mel- 
ancholy mood. If I feel gay I look up companions, 
buy a rabbit, get wine, and have a peasant-wife 
make a meal. The only rule that I constantly run 
a-foul of here is that everyone is forbidden to leave 
his cantonment, i. e. barn-yard and manure pit — till 
five in the morning. Unfortunately, on account of 
my size I am easily recognizable and the Captain has 
caught me now twice. He is lenient enough and 
does not like to punish, so he has let me off. 

Your enclosures of Rader's articles have come. I 
should not have thought that such whoppers would 
be printed east of the Mississippi, save perhaps in a 
Hearst sheet. There are seeds of truth in some of 
his remarks, at least I can see where he had the idea; 
but I have to give him the credit of the most power- 
ful imagination. From the first night in Frise we 
noticed that he was considerable of afroussard. And 
the week following he proved to be an unprecedented 
" ' tireur-au-queue '." He developed one sickness after 
another to get out of the trenches. Finally got 
evacuated to get a bath on account of lice (no one 
had them) and, at Moncourt, by pretending he was 
English, got shipped to London. During the whole 
of the time he stayed at the Front his sojourn in the 
trenches proper could never have exceeded fifteen 
to twenty days. His only talent was that of making 
caricatures, which he did well, and a manner of 
getting what he wanted which demands admiration, 



THE LEGION 101 

considering he neither talked much French nor could 
understand it beyond the simplest phrases. 

I have just received your book of Essays. The 
title smacks of Arnold Bennett and somehow sug- 
gests that you are enjoying a ripe old age. But I do 
enjoy the contents. I just glow in the warmth and 
luxury of reading it. The Times is all I have as 
literature else. I have found a fellow who is binding 
it for me. Our "cos sack" Rodger, who kept the 
cows for us at Frise, calls himself relieur. 

It was amusing to see the different effects which 
Rader's articles produced on our little society. 
Lacasagne cast melancholy despairing smiles — he 
knew he was a froussard and a fearful shirker; and 
to add to these a desperate liar, makes him out a 

pretty bad character. But H , the Dutch Jew, 

went into ecstasies at the cleverness and "nerve" 
of the man, and immediately borrowed paper and 
pencil from me and wrote a most windy description 
to an Amsterdam paper, as an hors-d'ceuvre of what 
he could do if they asked him. 

April 16. 

We have been having reviews and marches. An 
intimate inspection by General Castelnau (Com- 
mander of the 2nd Army, I think). 

Your loving 
Victor. 

[In the Spring of 191 5 Victor's parents and Mrs. 
William Astor Chanler made a trip to France. They 
obtained permission to go to Amiens, and Victor, 
who was in the trenches near by, was on May 8 given 
twenty-four hours furlough. It was a picturesque 
and happy day, and in the course of it the photo- 
graph of Victor as Legionnaire was taken. We were 
to see him once again; for a few weeks later the 
French Government in honor of the 4th of July, and 



102 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

at the request of Ambassador Sharp, gave the Amer- 
ican volunteers in the Legion forty-eight hours fur- 
lough to visit Paris. — Editor.] 

Cantonment under tent-covers in garden of village 
of 

Dear Alee: The foregoing slip was written during 
the exercise this morning in a charming wood with 
the leaves just popping out, and the early blossoms 
and ground flowers out. There is not much of any 
sign to indicate that we are not to stop here for some 
time. The Captains and Commandants get fur- 
loughs of four or five days for Paris. The buglers go 
out in the neighborhood and practice the barrack 
calls. The Captains disturb us with reviews of ef- 
fects, and the fournisseurs are busy giving us new light 
blue capotes, etc. I rather think we were moved 
from the last town of Hangest because there was a 
great lack of water there. Now we usually do 
marches and exercises in the early morning because 
it has suddenly become quite hot. In the afternoon 
theory, nettoyage, or repos. I usually get a chance to 
go in swimming. Francois would not take Fahns- 
worth because the latter was in prison (for the same 
offense as Ames and myself i. e. late at appel). We 
are not over much plagued by r ass emblements, drills, 
etc., but I am naturally somewhat bored at the 
thought that we may never see fire again. Even 
Fahnsworth is getting bored at the outlook of re- 
maining here with reviews, exercise, alertes, and the 
like. Oh, I do want to ask you one very sad errand 
yet, — I know you or Papa will do it so well, so much 
better than anyone else. It is to see and say a com- 
forting word to Mme. Kohn, I rue des Etangs, Char- 
mont. Perhaps she has moved, or my last letter 
gone astray since I have not heard from her. 

Everyone is asleep about me in our improvised 



THE LEGION 103 

summer tent, only the puppy is chewing some one's 
shoes and in the courtyard I hear a soft harmonica. 
It is a hot noon day. A true war dog this, born in 
the trenches where his father was killed by a shell. 
He (Dompierre) and his two sisters, Frise and 
Cappy, traveled here in the musettes of kindly 
soldiers, while his mother marched in front with the 
7th Company. Now he is with us, but mother and 
sisters stay with the 7th. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

April 15, 1915. 
The French battery opened up suddenly while I 
was on guard 12 to 2 last night, and poured in about 
sixty shells behind the German lines, on the ravitaille- 
ment, perhaps. The echo and the shells travelling 
overhead sounded like a train moving away swiftly 
in the Hudson tube. The Germans finally, like a 
sleeping man waking and saying: "O Hell, I suppose 
I must," sent a long shell in answer. This afternoon, 
however, a battery opened up from a new direction 
and fired random shots at various points in our line. 
A poor chap in the First Section was killed, another 
couple wounded, quite far from where I am. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

May 10, 1915. 
Dear Papa: The day has passed uneventfully 
enough. Everybody shook hands with me all around 
as though I had been off for a month. I felt quite the 
most popular man in all France! My dear "cabbo" 
Prosper Bianchi, a delightful, smiling Italian Swiss, 
who is ideally sympathetic, was so touched with the 
thought that you might go home without a souvenir 
of the war, that he wants you to have the little bomb 



io 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

which he got in the trenches of Dompierre. It has 
never gone off. He stole it and we took out all the 
explosives, so don't be afraid. I have never coveted 
anything so much in my life, and doubtless would 
have swiped it from him if any occasion had offered. 
Bianchi thinks he will get another, but to me it is a 
rare article. Particularly since it is in perfect condi- 
tion and did fall in our neighborhood. For about a 
week they dropped half a dozen a night. With the 
enclosed mandate you should have no trouble in 
getting it at the given address. It is the house of a 
relation of our cook, Trena. Please don't give it 
away or show it to anybody who might requisition it 
for the military authority, and if you take it to 
pieces look out for a little ball like a shot, or a ball 
bearing. 

Rheims, southeast of Mondidier. 

May ii. 

We got up at 3:30 and packed everything. No 
particular rows. I stuffed the books and things into 
a St. Goban bag and put it on the caisson. Un- 
fortunately it came near the wheel, wore through, 
and all the books fell out. A little Italian leading a 
sick horse behind, picked them up as they fell, so 
most of them are saved. A pretty walk it was. We 
skirted Mondidier and saw the sky to the east flecked 
with the white puffs of French shrapnel. In the halt 
this side of Mondidier, the aeroplanes circled round 
us like doves, and one white biplane did dips and 
upside down slides. 

We were very inhospitably received here. Almost 
had to fight our way to a dirty barn-yard. Water is 
scarce, but now the cabarets have opened and wine can 
be had. We are leaving this evening for Bas, the 
rumor has it, and we are even prepared to sleep in 
the trenches. 



THE LEGION 105 

Trenches near Bas, 

May 12, 1915. 
Dear Alee: Toward evening we left the little town 
where I posted the letter to you, and coming to the 
next village found it full of troops: it is their places 
that we are taking. A long walk through a dark 
wood, taking the pieces on our shoulders at the end, 
and a mile of boyaux to our position. Very clean and 
well-arranged the Tirailleurs left it. We had hoped 
on seeing a few exploding shells that it might be an 
interesting section, but all the troops we asked said 
they lived in comfort and ease. German trenches 
from 400 to 900 metres away. One fellow of the 
active said his regiment, which had been here for 
six months, had lost but twelve men; while our 
Arab guides told me in fifty-four days here they had 
lost but two. Amusing characters these fellows the 
guides; give orders half in French, half in native, and, 
for convenience, the men have numbers. " Ras- 
semblez-vous. Ou est-il cinquante trois? Colly colly 

!" Well, this is so dead everyone walks about 

behind the trenches in daylight. They would do it 
before the trenches; but for the interminable tangles 
of barbed wire and defense de tirer. I presume the 
Germans have the same. There is a chateau and 
chapel in ruins. Here comes the soupe. Please send 
me my compass and be on the lookout for a con- 
venient wrist-watch, I lost mine in Frise. I am very 
thankful for the books. Much love to Papa and 
Aunt Beatrice. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

May 14, 1915. 
Dear Alee: Well, yesterday afternoon when we 
were enjoying the quietude of these almost unreal 
trenches a put — put — crik-crik — crrrrrrr with harsh 



io6 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

accompaniment of cannon, and a lively fusillade 
broke upon our left. Our batteries thundered and 
the Germans returned by sending a few shrapnel 
north of us. We hustled round and got in position. 
It appeared the French were anxious to know whether 
the Germans still had their artillery opposite. The 
companies had received the news beforehand and 
were prepared : a few men at the creneaux and the rest 
in the abris. The Commandant ordered everyone 
out of the boyaux: one killed and two wounded. After 
twenty minutes the shooting lessened and we turned 
to other things. I to reading Lamb whom I found 
tedious till I hit the Dissertation on Roast Pig. 
Bianchi to continuing the elaborate process of shav- 
ing, so abruptly cut short. 

The Company went out before the trenches again 
last night a little before dark and chopped away amid 
the beets. Three Germans came across the road 
to see what was up; but one tripped and attracted 
attention, whereupon both sides ran away, our men 
being quite unarmed. A curious effect these trenches 
give when seen from the normal ground-level and 
not six feet under. Irregular hummocks of turned 
earth, zigzag moles of brown soil, and in between 
rows of beet roots with green grass luxuriantly 
sprouting in spots. The whole seems to have no 
depth at all, like a plan of a maze on a piece of paper. 
The country here is very flat; but the monotony is 
relieved by woods, clumps of trees, patches of bushes, 
and a handsome double row of trees which border the 
high road running between the lines. Apple trees 
are now in bloom, and when the nights are not too 
windy birds chirp all through them. I have not yet, 
however, heard anything to resemble my conception 
of a nightingale's voice. Last night, after the dis- 
turbing influence of the artillery, both sides sent up 
occasional rockets. Short flickering stars which 



THE LEGION 107 

rose, bobbed a moment, and went out, showing up 
only the black silhouette of trees and feathery clouds 
banked upon one another. Did I tell you that in my 
night watches I have taken particular interest in the 
stars? — like the ancient shepherds, — and have made 
some shrewd guesses as to the zodiac constellations. 
The muleteers with the soupe arrive — also to take 
letters. Usual difficulties arrive over the distribution 
of potatoes. Calamity! the Sergeant's wine has not 
arrived. Now discussion as to whether a portion of 
lard goes with the meat! 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Sunday, May 18, 1915. 
Dear Alee: I am handsomely installed in a little 
niche on the side of a boy an with a board stretched 
across to write upon and a couple of sacks meant to 
put earth in, but now filled with straw. This is what 
the unambitious call the ideal trench life in the truly 
ideal trenches. The earth is the same brownish clay, 
but there is a little upper soil, hence no mud, besides 
it rarely rains. These make fine shooting-holes; and 
yet really, if you wish to shoot, it is much easier to 
climb out where you can get a good view above the 
grass. At Frise it was another situation. To put 
your head above was very dangerous, every pelletee 
de terre or end of a log which protruded above the 
talus level attracted a few humming balls. Here the 
fellows arranging their handsome creneaux, carelessly 
uncover themselves to the waist in broad noonday! 
And you can hardly see the German trenches even; 
with field glasses they look magnificent. I have not 
heard a bullet whistle overhead these three days — 
since the little artillery practice. I volunteered to 
do the corvee d'eau yesterday with a tall fellow, 
Samango, former student in Paris. Really, of course, 



108 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

to get a good look at the chateau. It is a paradise, 
beautiful even in its destruction; and radiates a kind 
of melancholy serenity. It stands, a pile of brick and 
stone, roofless, save one wing, with broken pediment 
and windows gaping to the sky, surrounded by a 
moat, with great flat lawns on either side, rows of 
clipped trees and endless allees. Barbed wire en- 
tanglements encumber the avenue: shell holes cut 
the turf and gravel; everywhere there are mangled 
trees. The chapel must have been very fine. Four 
or five stone men kneeling, now half buried in the 
debris of the fallen vaults. An eighteenth century 
confession-box emerging from the ruins. But I 
took a couple of photos of the inside. The jaqade 
was the most interesting part, perhaps, since it is the 
least damaged. Over the low door a Gothic balcony 
surrounded by a small rose window: flamboyant 
tracing like the rest of the chapel. Two round 
towers which had conical roofs flank the whole and 
make a composition with good proportions. An 
original statue or two in place contrasts with the 
pile of rubbish, — against one side of which, secreted 
in a hole, is a telephone operator with wires leading to 
the chateau. On nearer examination of the latter I 
found it very plain, long, high windows on the 
second stories, with iron grilles, but lots of them — 
and dormers. I felt it lacked unity in composition a 
little. Every part except the west wing open to the 
sky from the ground up. Already the blackbirds 
had taken possession of the upper masonry and 
chattered incessantly. In the area of the Escalier 
d'Honneur were handsome pieces of the wrought iron 
balcony; very Louis XVI, Petit Trianon in feeling, 
and on the wall a huge genealogical chart in which the 
families of Belleforeire and Soyecourt traced them- 
selves back to Hugh Capet. All those "court" 
names are Picardy; it is full of Moncourt, Merri- 



THE LEGION 109 

court, Maricourt, etc. The present owner is an 
Englishman. It was he who restored the whole a few 
years ago (so says a Latin inscription), and I hold 
him responsible for the plaster plaques in the chapel, 
and a hideous green iron stage in the distance on the 
south lawn. Still, he did keep up the bits of formal 
garden and the trim lines of trees. 

I read Lamb and have attacked The Autocrat. 
One has to eat such a lot to get a little nutrition that 
even a pig's time is not worth it. Here they're at it 
again — Bing — Bang — Bang! about ten number 12 
shells of the Germans. Bing! a 75 bangs just over 
me. The latter are much more alarming, for they 
travel faster than sound, so one does not hear the 
depart till it whistles past. Even the German 77 one 
has time to jump; and these are the bigger caliber 
which they are playing today, perhaps even on the 
poor chateau. 

We are going in repos for two days and I shall try 
to sketch the ruined chapel, etc. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Before I forget it, I just saw a little American chap 
who tells me of the petite poste where he watches from 
time to time. The trenches of his company are eight 
hundred metres from the enemy, but each side has 
long boyaux which lead out to little advance forts 
where a section at a time watch for half a day. 
Thirty odd metres off there is a similar German post. 
Of course they interchange expressions of disgust, 
usually at sunrise. I have noticed this before. I 
suppose it is because at that hour the officers of 
neither side are yet on the job. One Boche spoke up 
in French, "Don't shoot! What's the use?" A 
Legionnaire thereupon fired off a gun, whereupon the 
other responded " Bande de salauds!" Oh, some of 



no LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

these Germans speak excellent French and better 
Parisian slang. A "type" we had opposite the 
Le Genuillere said he worked eight years with Felix 
Potin. One German rather got the Section's goat, as 
Dugan expressed it. For the longest time he up- 
braided them, his voice coming from somewhere near 
by. They searched all about and peeped from every 
corner of the little trench, but never a sign. At times 
he would call back to his friend in the German post, 
"Hans," who roared with laughter. Dugan now 
suspects that he must have been inside of an aban- 
doned tin sprinkler. A couple of the section shot at a 
rabbit and one went out to look for the beast. He 
did not find it but came back without drawing any 
fire. 

Ames has just got a paper and says Wilson has 
delivered a sharp note. Let us hope he follows it up. 
One, three, seven German shells passed overhead, 
response to half a dozen 75's. Otherwise the flies 
are the only noise-makers here. I am glad to see that 
certain sanitary precautions and disinfectants are 
being applied to the trenches. I have feared the hot 
weather on this subject and only hope strict orders 
will be given. Five more French shells! 

Repos in Bas, 
May 19, 1915. 
Dear Papa: Our piece (half section) came down 
from the trenches yesterday for repos. We walked 
through the great park, now vested in tiny young 
leaves. The vaulted avenues gave one somewhat the 
same underwater sensation we have on the Island. 
At the far end was a battery of artillery with the 
huts and shells of its servants mostly underground. 
A little to one side were improvised stables against 
the brick wall which encloses the property, and more 
huts of tree branches and evergreen boughs. The vil- 



THE LEGION in 

lage of Boub Boul they call it. I even saw a wigwam- 
shaped structure marked " Rendez vous des cockers" 
It has been raining or clouded the last four days. 
Our "ideal" trenches have become mud bogs in 
spite of ingenious holes to draw off the water. But 
the woods are wonderful. I went out there on a 
corvee de bois this afternoon (enclosed a lily-of-the- 
valley I picked). The chateau I spoke of I hear had 
at least 5000 shells emptied into it. Imagine what a 
stupid waste of ammunition! 
Off for the post. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

May 21, 1915. 
Dear Papa: We (the piece) are going up to the 
trenches for six days after our three days repos. We 
hear from our friends the German and Austrian 
Poles etc., who were sent away from us, that they 
afterwards joined the 2me de Marche, and that the 
latter has been north of Arras and has suffered very 
much. One company (250) is reduced to 43. Des- 
sauer, I may have spoken of, was wounded there. 
Here the days pass quietly. The Germans send 
three or four shells in search of the French ^atteries 
hidden in the woods. Near us in the trenches there 
is one spot where the German 77s send four shells 
every afternoon, never more nor less than four. At 
the fourth explosion half a dozen fellows jump out 
of the trench and scramble in the turned up ground 
for the fusees. You may have noticed in the com- 
munique a week ago that there was an attack at 
Frise which was repulsed. One German was taken 
prisoner. When questioned why they had never at- 
tacked all winter he answered that they knew the 
Legion was opposite them, and though the latter 
appeared not to be very good shots, their fame at 



ii2 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

the bayonet was such that the Germans feared a 
hand-to-hand conflict. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

May 23, 1915. 
Dear Alee: I wrote a good letter to MacVeagh 
yesterday afternoon in a coffin-like hole I made for 
myself back of the cabin in the beet roots. This 
morning, in fact most of the day, Ames and I have 
shoveled and picked to cave out for ourselves a 
"bureau." Two seats facing each other with a small 
door shoved into the earth horizontally to form a 
writing desk. It is the first time we have a really 
civilized place to write in. I never realized till this 
minute how much easier it is than forever balancing 
a book or board on one's knees. Did I tell you that 
the 2me de Marche has suffered heavily at Arras? 
Recurrent rumor has it that there are but 180 effect- 
ives left. Meanwhile we here are as quiet as we 
would be at Barrytown. Once every half-hour, 
usually less often, a single rifle report. Not even the 
shells. There is, in fact, a general order not to shoot, 
— to make believe that the trenches have been evac- 
uated. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

May 25, 1915. 
Dear Alee: Ames has become so sad and depressed 
lately that, to cheer him up, I have been giving him 
English lessons. I find that I benefit by the instruc- 
tion nearly as much as he, not to speak of the pleasure 
of teaching an intelligent mind. He seems to grasp 
the grammar very readily. We have not been doing 
it long enough to see how much he retains. Yester- 



THE LEGION 113 

day a man of the 92nd shot a Boche out of a tree: 
towards evening a couple went out and brought him 
in. He was shot through the shoulder. A young 
fellow, without malice. He gave his revolver to the 
fellow who pulled him down; said he came from 
Hamburg but had not heard from home for three 
months. He wore very used corduroys and a vest, — 
no hat. I talked to a couple of fellows who had 
talked to him. Yes, he knew considerable French. 
He said, that "of course Italy's declaration of war 
was a huge lie since the latter was siding with Ger- 
many and going to take up arms for that cause. " 
Later: I have been down the line to see an American 
who, it was rumored, was formerly in the 2me de 
Marche. A heavyset man he was, over thirty, and 
was wounded by a shrapnel in the foot. Born in 
Maine, living in Richmond. He had thrown up a 
job on the "Old Dominion" line, James river, to 
come over. He said the French soldiers at the 
hospital where he was at Beauvais were much nicer 
than the Legion. "Why, this is a regular menagerie," 
he added. (I seem to have dropped into the reporter 
interview style.) Still he had no grudge against the 
Regiment. He told me some of the happenings in 
section D which I was not acquainted with. When 
they first came up in December, those who had a 
moment carved out berths in the side of the trenches. 
Well, of course, after a couple of heavy rains the 
whole wet soil would fall in. Woe to the inhabitant! 
The Persian Prince (son of the minister) was thus 
suffocated. His copans began digging him out by the 
feet and it took forty-five minutes. It appears there 
were several other cases afterwards; but the fellows 
learned their lesson and after that began at the head. 
The American himself was partially buried. Fahns- 
worth has been talking to me about Australian 
bush, horse-breaking, sheep-herding, etc. A Simula- 



ii 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

ere attaque last night from Germans. All over in ten 
minutes. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 2, 1915. 
Dear Conrad and Chanler: No: the stamp on the 
envelope does not mean I have changed my company. 
I suppose you look upon me as fighting morning and 
evening with the tenacious German Infantry, — dodg- 
ing great armor-plated shells, while a constant purr 
and hiss of German bullets sounds a few inches above 
my head. Well, it is nothing of the sort now. We 
occupy one of those secteurs in a plain, where the 
German trenches are nearly half a mile off and both 
the enemy and ourselves are anxious to be let alone 
as much as possible. We live in the usual labyrinth 
of boyaux and trenches with what you might call the 
trench emblem, — the eternal beet root, — now sprout- 
ing tall on their second year's growth. In the very 
early morning sometimes one hears the distant 
crack — sput! of a rifle or the low p-uzz of an already 
spent bullet coming by; but, except for an occasional 
demonstration of German artillery and once or twice 
a week a little shooting of shrapnel at a passing 
aeroplane, the only sounds are men's and birds' 
voices. At night we each mount guard for two 
hours, — that is, stand about in the neighborhood of 
the piece (machine gun). Sometime between 5:30 
and 7 the jus (coffee) arrives. This is the occasion of 
waking the sergeant who suggests that we sweep 
up a little round the piece, and donner un coup de 
balayage au boyau. The water should have been 
brought on the previous evening in a large demijohn. 
If so inclined, one washes superficially, or even 
shaves. " Apres avoir casse la croute, " a slice of bread, 
with butter if we have any, and I indulge in scrambled 



THE LEGION 115 

eggs, when I have them. Sometime between 9:30 and 
11 two muleteers arrive with the soupe, consisting 
of the wine (pinar), boiled beef (bidoche), and a 
greasy warm liquid, usually containing disintegrated 
boiled potatoes, the soup proper and the bread. 
Sometimes we have canned meat (singe) and, once 
in a while, macaroni (nouilles). Another superficial 
sweep, then a relapse till sometime after five o'clock, 
when another two muleteers bring the soupe — (only 
vegetables and meat this time), same as before in 
appearance and taste. The events of the day are the 
arrival of letters and the newspapers. A corvee (Teau 
is sent off, — two men with the "bon bon" strung 
between them on a stick, to the village. At night the 
Companies send out patrouilles of 8 to 15 men, — 
bayonettes on their guns, a few cartridges in their 
pockets, but no cartouchiere or cintinor. They crawl 
about in the beets and clover for a couple of hours and 
return. There used to be a certain amount of mys- 
tery about these patrols; but since they have never 
yet met a German patrol and the leaders are not 
endued with that reckless courage necessary to 
enter the German trenches and bring a man or two 
back, interest is slackening. When it is dark or the 
moon overcast both sides send up rockets from time 
to time which twinkle and bob in the distance, like 
unnatural stars. As you can imagine, we are more or 
less restrained to live in the compass of a few yards, 
see the same people, hear the same remarks, do the 
same jobs day after day. What the French call the 
caffard sets in. It seems too much trouble to do 
more than the barest necessities. I feel that this is a 
most excellent apprenticeship for the job of tending a 
light-house or light-ship. At first when the place is 
new, the work is interesting, the events (storms, etc.) 
are exciting; then one loses more and more the out- 
side point of view. The fine sunsets and sunrises get 



n6 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

monotonous, the people one thought picturesque and 
amusing at first sight, lose their interest, and you 
have recourse to books, magazines and newspapers. 
Of course here I do a little more. Give English les- 
sons, for instance. 

I'll get this off and write another letter. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 2, 1915. 

Dear Papa: Thank you ever so much for the letter 
describing in detail all the anti-gas inventions as yet 
devised. I am greatly impressed by this expression of 
paternal affection. Of course I carry in the back of 
my head the belief that this regiment will never be in 
danger from the deadly clouds. We had to leave the 
Frise section for lack of men to hold it, and now our 
two battalions together are reduced to 1200 men 
while a regiment should have 4 or 5 of 1000 each. I 
have been taking enormous interest in the English 
changes in government. Is it not the first coalition 
cabinet since those shabby failures at the end of the 
1 8th century? The only sinister note I have noticed 
in the whole procedure is Redmond's refusal to join 
the cabinet. The English papers are awfully serious; 
no rosy war pictures. I should think that England 
ought to put itself under martial law as France has 
done, if she really wants to get down to business. 
Is that labor leader, Henderson, a stiff-necked bigot, 
or will he add strength and not friction to the minis- 
try? 

What is the betting on the U. S. action now? Even 
the French papers say that Bryan is a "peace-at-any- 
price man" who is trying for the Nobel Prize. The 
Mexican question must be getting serious, I see from 
a note in the French paper. 

C , the Portugee West African ship-captain, 



THE LEGION 117 

has been explaining to me the points of a compass 
and how one directs a ship by it. It is often very 
difficult to follow since he drops into Portuguese at 
times, and his French is so highly colored by the 
former language that it is only a practiced ear or a 
Spaniard that can catch the important words. Fine 
weather here. The Germans put out two little 
green flags with Arabic characters saying that this 
was a holy war. Our patrouille pulled up one and 
brought it in. A bomb was attached, but luckily 
did not go off. 
Off with the mail. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 4, 1915. 

Dear Alee: I have just received your letter enclos- 
ing Cowdin's. My wishes are stronger and stronger 
to leave this regiment. To sit here week after week 
reading essays and taking a mild interest in the war 
without any outlet or relief, save sales corvees, while 
the wreck of this regiment gets battered to and fro 
by fate, and the members have nothing better to do 
than wager when it will sink, is nothing more or less 
than prison life — interesting as an experience, but 
I have served my term. 

Enough! Enough! It comes down to this: From 
the outside point of view I have done a "noble" act 
and perhaps gathered honor in so doing. But from 
the practical point of view I have thrown away ten 
months of my life, neither helped the French nor 
injured the Germans. I have counted merely as a 
unit, and a rather troublesome one, perhaps, because 
I had ideas and would not always stay put. You, 
and especially Papa, don't seem to realize that the 
Franco-German-Front is like a chain nailed at cer- 
tain points. As long as the nails remain firmly 



n8 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

planted the chain cannot budge. The only reason for 
the continuous line of trenches is to keep the oppo- 
nent from making maurauding expeditions with 
cavalry, etc. or sending large forces to get the main 
troops of the opponent in the rear. The "dreadful" 
trenches, where we were all winter, could just as 
well have been inhabited by women and children for 
all the good the men did. A lively fusillade to answer 
the enemy two or three times a month. The noise 
might even have been marvellously imitated by 
bunches of fire-crackers. As for these trenches 
where we are now: a sentinel every half mile, with a 
regiment playing dominoes in the village to come up 
through the wood in case of general attack, com- 
municated with by telephone, would serve the pur- 
pose equally well. The Government has the troops, 
so it puts them at the Front and keeps them busy 
digging second and third line trenches for want of a 
better occupation. The German artillery would 
open up on the Companies if they took to manoeu- 
vring practice. That furious bombardment of T 

was due to an aeroplane having spotted a company at 
work in the streets the preceding morning. As you 
see in the papers, daily artillery is what counts in 
this war — ammunitions galore. Meanwhile we sit 
here wearing down the enemies' morale. But egotis- 
tically speaking, why should I stay here when a 
Hooligan out of Paris could fill my place to better 
advantage? Aside from the fact that the Captain 
prides himself on having Ames and myself, like rare 
birds, to boast of to his fellow officers: "American 
millionaires! Came here for the war! Odd, ain't 
it!", he has often said that he deplored the fact 
that we were not professional terrassiers (ditchers.) 
To continue : What have I got out of this life, and 
what more shall I get? Lots of amusing experiences, 
some sad ones, seeing the making of the war in the 



THE LEGION 119 

remote parts of the Front, meeting all manner of 
men on the same level, — a few hardships at the 
beginning, but unfortunately none now — that would 
make things interesting. And the putting up with a 
great deal of damn foolery, which luckily slides off 
my back. Oh yes, I have learned more worldly 
wisdom: — when it pays to lie, the necessity of steal- 
ing small indispensables, and what a world one can do 
with a "culot monstre" or as we say in America 
"What a lot you can get away with by sheer cheek. " 
But as for my personal habits, I am every bit, nay, 
twice as untidy, and as for laziness — why, my former 
self was a model of untiring zeal! I hardly think I 
am a strong enough character not to be influenced by 
my environment, where everyone's only aim is to do 
as little and get out of as much as possible. As for 
developing my character and forces, I have long since 
given up any forlorn hopes that whispered the pos- 
sibility of better things. I shall merely become more 
slothful, less efficient, and less fit to do work after- 
wards. 

As for Aviation, I was too irresolute and inarticu- 
late at Amiens to give free vent to my feelings, and 
with the bunting that popular heroes are made of lying 
so thick, I did not like to show my true self. I have 
read Cowdin's letter; but it is perfectly obvious that I 
am not wanted and have been foisted on them by 
Uncle Willy and Papa. This is Prince's and Cowdin's 
show* they got it up. It was not for Americans in 
general. If I had been hauled out of the Legion in 
February I might have been a charter member of the 
Club, but I would not think of joining now. He is a 
most polite intelligent fellow, Cowdin, I can see, and 
is having the time of his life. It's not as dangerous 
as they say. I have seen them nearly every bright 
day when often fifty shells leave white balls in the 
sky, and not yet have I seen one disabled. What 



120 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

shall I do when I get back in the "civil?" Well, I 
have not yet given up aeroplaning, and on other lines 
there are thousands of interesting things to do, and 
you forget that if ever I get homesick for this life 
again (may the devil damn me black!) I can always 
re-engage. 

Well, if I could get up interest enough to write a 
letter like this every morning I should not feel so 
unhappy, but it takes favorable circumstances to be 
undisturbed (there is no real privacy, of course), 
and I have pretty well drained all my spigots of 
over-flowing ideas, besides my habitual inertness is 
not easily overcome. We go down this afternoon. 
I am not. looking forward to it particularly, though 
since most of the muleteers have gone, I hear that we 
shall exercise the animals. You see it has taken 3 
weeks of hopeful waiting and then a set-back to 
bring my fluctuating ideas into tangible form. But 
they were born in March. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 12, 1915. 
Dear Alee: Well, the unexpected always happens 
by experience. It is not the Boches, but the weather 
which gives us the trouble. This time it was a shower 
shortly after dark night before last. Just a summer 
thunder storm, only it lasted an hour and a half to 
two hours, and was a tropical deluge. The effect on 
our trenches, which, you will remember, are in ab- 
solutely level plain, was most astonishing and hor- 
rible. First, little by little all our neatly carved 
cubby-holes, shelves, and benches, melted away. 
The steeper sides of the boyaux came sliding, and then 
the water began to rise in the bottom of the trenches. 
If you consider that every shelter, or sleeping bur- 
row, is like a subway entrance along the side of the 



THE LEGION 121 

boyaux you can realize the seriousness of the danger. 
In the dark, half-naked, we pushed and pulled the 
sticky, liquid mud, pulled down sacks, creneaux, 
logs, anything to make a barrier. We succeeded 
finally and I waded up to my thighs to see how the 
others had fared. The other place was a well, full, 
up to the top of the stairs. The Lieutenant I found 
lying on his bed, a high one set in the wall, while 
chairs and tables floated among empty bottles and 
bits of wood. He was quite dry, he said. But a 
quarter of an hour after, a second freshet raised the 
water level above the bed. In that region, ours, and 
one other, were the only cabins saved. The machines, 
being on raised stands, did not suffer, and we had 
put the boxes of cartridges out of danger. 

The next morning we began damming off the 
trenches at intervals, and emptying one portion at a 
time. Many had suffered worse than we. The First 
Section spent most of the night reinforcing dykes on 
three sides to keep the water from swamping their 
piece and all. And some of the companies had all 
their belongings, sacks, etc., drenched. I don't be- 
lieve there were ten rifles in our Section that would 
have functioned properly. All day we worked with 
bucket chains to get the water out, and then the 
soft mud, six inches deep on the bottom. Our com- 
panions-in-woe across the wire entanglements must 
have suffered equally, for we really did see them 
scrambling about on the horizon. Somebody or- 
ganized a feu de salve and brought down three or 
four, as the story runs. As was to be expected they 
retaliated and killed a fellow who was showing him- 
self near us. It remained overcast all day so nothing 
dried. I could not take good photographs. Of course 
bare feet and trousers rolled up to the last notch 
were the general equipment. Luckily there was a 
hedge behind which one could walk instead of taking 



122 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

the boyaux; for those leading out were, in places, 
nearly full. 

There are several cases on record, in the Company 
beside us, of fellows having swum with the morning 
coffee to reach their squad yesterday. The Lieuten- 
ant behaved wonderfully tactfully and democrat- 
ically, living with us and even falling-to with .the 
buckets. He telephoned to the Captain a propos of 
something yesterday afternoon. The Captain hoped 
things were better now and advised him to make a 
fire in his abri! The stove had been two feet under 
water for the past 18 hours. The Company Com- 
mandants acted with vigor and intelligence having 
been drowned out with their men, — and spent the 
entire night wading aimlessly about in dripping 
clothes. Half sections from the other Battalion, 
came up in spotless tenue and were set to shoveling 
mud. Also a couple of pumps have been installed. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

I have lost all my pipes in the scramble. A big 
straight one would be very gratefully received. 

June 19, 1915. 
Dear Uncle Willy: I enclose some of the photos I 
have taken lately. I am sorry that they should be so 
uninteresting, but the confounded Germans have 
taken to using smokeless powder in their shells, at 
least the ones we get. So, though they pepper us 
harmlessly about once or twice a week I can get no 
snaps. We are now trying to take the cabin interiors 
by flash light. At first we used powder from car- 
tridges, but last evening we found an unused rocket 
between the trenches and now hope for excellent 
results. You would not believe it, — I still have 
nearly everything you gave me before leaving. 
Both sweaters, rather tattered but in constant serv- 



THE LEGION 123 

ice, — one has the famous bullet hole through it. 
The automatic looking very fit. The sleeping bag 
was lost at Cailleaux but I had another given to me 
by a friend. The camera, of course, well to the front, 
and the shoes the family admired so much still as 
good as new. (The very handsome high pair Mr. 
Jaccaci gave me, are showing signs of wear sadly, in 
spite of repairs). Do you know about our new 
Lieutenant, i, e. in the mitrailleuse? A tall light- 
haired Zcheck. His brother's regiment was sent 
down to Serbia at the beginning of the war and was 
deliberately wiped out by Austrian artillery. So 
he joined the French. The ring-making craze is all 
the rage, I don't think there is a man here without 
several. A slight bombardment is greeted with 
pleasure because of its deposit of aluminum pieces 
which are promptly melted down into tubes and 
sawed off into rings. There are rumors of going to 
repos. Meanwhile we are always in the same place. 
Your affectionate nephew, 

Victor. 
Enclosed four photographs. Many more coming. 

June 22, 1915. 
Dear Papa: Thank you very much for the Swiss 
newspaper. That article of Rolland is the most 
interesting one I have seen in some time. Are they 
not reprinting it in some Paris paper? If so, could 
I not see one or two if you run across them? The 
last very handsome Marquand respirator arrived. 
My companions liken me to the Englishman who 
received twenty-seven masks the day after the Ger- 
mans were known to use gas. Nothing has happened 
here at all. We do our six days in the trenches and 
three days at repos like clock-work and count time 
by them rather than by the days of the week. There 
are rumors of great conflicts to the north, displace- 



i2 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

merit of troops, etc., but you know how baseless most 
of our "inside information" is. Tell Alee I have just 
finished a ten page letter to Mme. Kohn. I fitted up 
my "bureau" so that my light would not show, and 
sat up half the night. Bianchi has just made me an 
ink-stand out of a 105 fusee. He has got together the 
files, chisels and vises necessary and turns them out 
almost as fast as people bring him the fusees. I am 
trying to get a seal ring made, but the jewelers 
claim they cannot work well without their instru- 
ments. The trades sometimes strike one oddly here, 
as the negro who refused to cook for his company 
because it would spoil his metier: he was a real chef. 
And the tailor who examined Ames, when he first 
came, and ejaculated that the suit must have cost at 
least 200 francs. Just so the other day I asked a 
fellow who said he had studied dentistry, to look at 
my mouth. (I'm worried over three holes I have 
found). " Laisse voir! oh, laisse voir! Quelle beau 
travail! Qa vaut au moins deux mille francs. Au 
moins." And I inwardly thought what genuine 
pleasure he would have examining at leisure my skull 
if he found it rolling round the field. Incidentally 
he is a Roumanian and, though he was studying with 
his brother in New York, he came over to join. I 
think such fellows deserve more credit than if they 
had been already here. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 30, 1915. 
Dear Alee: Just a line: we are on the move. Yes- 
terday noon we left the trenches and started north. 
Evidently there have been orders and counter-orders, 
for the first Battalion spent a night near St. Juste. 
Got to this village at midnight and were awakened 
by the fortieth wending through with drum and 



THE LEGION 125 

horn. A real Regiment, four full Battalions. The 
summer poilu is a much nicer looking man than the 
winter, — clean-shaved, save a short mustache, and 
has a much more spick-and-span appearance. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Provisionally in the 2d Line Trenches, 

July 2, 1915. 
Dear Alee: A twilight march laden down with full 
musettes and blankets "en bandeliere" followed by 
our mules and guns on a straight highroad. Flat 
country with little groups of trees and villages 
silhouetted on the horizon. We met a company of 
Territorials coming back from hay-making, each 
with a huge rake and one of those straight-handled, 
broad-bladed scythes which are only associated with 
Father Time and other antiquated symbols. A long 
walk in wide and very crooked boyaux with the 
pieces; and here we met " encadres" with reserve 
troops which have been here since they drove the 
Germans out in October. In a high voice the little 
guide, who was bringing a couple of cases for us, 
pointed out, "In this clump of trees we drove them 
back from that hedge, the 307th followed them up." 
And it was so sultry and dark that we, new arrivals, 
could not see anything. His whole intonation, and 
almost his accent, reminded me of a small Irishman. 
Celtic perhaps. The fellows mounting guard talked 
another incomprehensible dialect. I was rather 
surprised to find myself as much out of it with a 
French Regiment as with our Legionary companions. 
This morning I found one of them, who had come 
from the depot just after the attack in October, tell- 
ing my copans about the fusee and German car- 
tridges. His point of view was that of Perry when 
he mourned the extinction of lobsters in Maine. 



126 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

" Mon pauvre ami" (this seems to be a friendly 
expression in the locality), why, when I first came 
here there were two fusees to every beet root and 
beautiful unblemished ones all of aluminum. As 
for Boche cartridges, why, the trenches were full of 
them, for the scoundrels were well stocked and did 
not expect to be driven out. Why, I'll wager our 
regiment alone sent home three wagon loads of 
porte-plumes, — mats maintenant une balle Boche qa se 
vend a quart sous piece. There are fellows here who 
have made fifty rings each. And now you can pick 
the whole field over and never a sign! The salauds 
only send us now useless things in brass. 

July 3, 1915. 
I went to sleep before finishing and had a total 
relaxation from War, etc., by — what do you think? 
Reviewing Harvard Dental School requirements and 
talking over exams, and board-and-lodging with 
Ames, who thinks he'll take up that profession when 
he gets out. A little cure from the Tours Seminary 
(now a brancardier) came round and showed us his 
"chapel," — an altar literally bursting with flowers, 
wild and cultivated, some in garlands and some in 
empty shells. . . . 

Your loving 
Victor. 

July 14, 1915. 
Dear Alee: Twenty-four hours in cattle cars; but 
rather amusing all the same. Great work embarking 
the horses and mules in the pouring rain yesterday. 
This goes from Belfort. Very pretty scenery, the 
last few miles mountains like the Camden Hills. We 
have enough to eat somehow. One man got left 
getting wine, but has caught us on an express. We 
are going to the Swiss frontier en repos. A few 
trenches and a French "sausage" are the only active 



THE LEGION 127 

war signs, besides old soldiers guarding the rails. Oh 
yes, one corvee with shovels and picks. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

July 16, 1915. 

Dear Alee: Well, we are in the seventh heaven and 
the full expectation of really getting into an attack 
for we are verse into the famous 2me de Marche. It 
was this regiment which attacked at Carency and the 
neighborhood on the 9th of May and withstood 
(the three divisions) eleven German divisions in 
the contre-attack the 16th of June. It is perhaps the 
most famous regiment in the French forces on ac- 
count of these two facts; but, of course, there is 
nothing left of it to speak of — (4000 casualties, the 
ninth and sixteenth of May, cost). They are a few 
old legionnaires j and the rest volunteers; but they are 
soldiers, and the officers know their business and do 
not haggle over matters of form in the cantonment 
but speak to us straight. " We have to do this and 
this because it will be necessary in the fight." Every- 
thing not essential to battle will not be insisted upon. 

We arrived on the night of the fourteenth at 
Montbeliard and slept in the old castle perched over 
the town, now a barrack, — a typical German schloss, 
with round towers, storied gables, — even an iron 
bear coming out of the masonry rocks in the wall. 
Now we are billeted in a little village less than a 
dozen miles south of Belfort. We and all the mi- 
trailleuse, together with the Division Moroccan, i. e. 
the Turcos and Zouaves — what is left of them. Our 
Tcek Lieutenant remains to command our sections. 
The new Captain is an efficient fellow who belongs 
to the active and has served two Moroccan cam- 
paigns. Likewise the other Lieutenant. The orig- 
inal officers, of course, met their fate at Arras. 



128 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

The country here is hilly, woody and far more 
beautiful than the Picardy country. The houses and 
farms are high and of stone and rubble, — round 
arches, and no barn-yards. And the population is 
violently patriotic. Only too ready to help the 
soldiers. I believe they would deprive themselves of 
milk and eggs to serve the soldiers. I have found 
Heredia in the company encamped in the next vil- 
lage, but as yet have not had a good talk with him. 
He took part in the second affair at Arras, and gave 
us a short, disjointed and amusing description of it. 
One cannot sit down here in a cafe but the fellow 
opposite launches into horrible detailed descriptions, 
with glaring eyes and forced gestures. It seems to 
have affected many of them as the colossal catas- 
trophe of their lives. The cannonade and being with 
the dead and rotting has been too much for them. 
However the best balanced fellows, like Heredia, are 
unaffected, and the morale of the regiment is very 
high despite their losses. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

July i 6, 191 5. 

Dear Papa: I am writing from a cafe in a sizable 
town into which we have sneaked after the soup. 
Hericourt it is called, and the streets are swarming 
with Zouaves and Turcos who are perhaps the most 
picturesque of French soldiers. They no longer have 
the breezy red trousers; but they retain the red fez, 
which is worn in a hundred jaunty fashions over a 
cropped head. The rest of the costume consists of a 
short jacket and bloomers, both of khaki. 

In our little village are only the Mitrailleuse sec- 
tions, but there are Zouaves and bronze Turcos 
(or Bicos as they are called), squatting against the 
houses whose shingled walls are tapestried with 



THE LEGION 129 

trained pear trees. It is a great pleasure to see this 
rolling land well-wooded, and the yokes of white and 
yellow oxen on the winding road. The impressions 
of the different units of the 3d at being thrown into 
the 2nd Regiment of March are diverse. We, the 
Mitraille, are joyous, — good chiefs, fair treatment, 
and sure fighting before us. 

July 18, 1915. 

Dear Alee: Yesterday we marched thirty odd 
kilometres up into the foot-hills of Alsace: we shall 
cross over into the German possessions tomorrow, 
I think. Back in Picardy I was beginning to think 
that I was fed up with the country, and that nature 
had no more charms for me; but once here in these 
hills and woods with quaint cottages and running 
streams I have new interest. Yes : they are somewhat 
like the Catskills, and it pours and then shines much 
the same. I have just been in a butcher shop. A 
rambling stone edifice, — part house, part barn, — yet 
all under one peak roof. Walking through a passage 
by the wood pile, I found myself in a very dark, low- 
timbered room, one small window and a door giving 
on the garden. Full half the ceiling was hung with 
hams, sausages, bacons, and the like; while in the 
corner next the stove was a huge square chimney, 
open to the sky, fitted with rods on which hung rows 
of sausages. A hearty-faced man with a black soft 
hat came in, looking, with his stocky build, the image 
of the figures of Teniers and his period. A beefy 
woman served de la Surade with evident pleasure; 
and then, at his suggestion, I was shown three hand- 
some old pieces of furniture, — a chest and two of 
those high combination closets and bureaux. All 
were interesting. There was also a little spinning 
wheel in the corner which she still used. 

As for our future, it is, we are convinced, full of 



i 3 o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

glory and adventure. Hindenburg is commanding 
in Louvain, and JofTre is at Belfort, the papers say. 
All the Moroccan division, both regiments of the 
Legion, three of Zouaves and two of Turcos, are here. 
Fighting in the woods and mountains is much more 
picturesque than in the plains, and we cannot be 
cannonaded with heavy artillery, nor will it be the 
deadly monotonous trench warfare. 

In marching through the villages yesterday, I saw 
the number two (2) and enquired for the American 
section. Finally I came upon it and found Seeger. 
I have never seen him in such good health. Why, he 
hardly looks himself! The 2me Etr anger has more 
Legionnaires even than the 2me de Marche. I don't 
think they have done as much as the ^me de Marche, 
though of course they were well officered. I am 
going to look him up again when I have finished this 
letter. He is in the other end of the same village. 
He seems to have plenty of money, and to be content 
with his lot. 

Did I tell you I found Heredia? He is really in 
need of help for he has not a man in his section with 
whom he can have a sympathetic friendship. The 
Corporal is an old legionary, and most of the squad are 
South American professional pick-pockets and sneak- 
thieves, whom the Paris police led gently to the Re- 
cruiting Office, so that they might do no more harm. 

Please send me my little Bible and my camera and 
stuff as soon as possible. Of course I have not had a 
letter since I left you at Paris, nor shall I for some 
days since we are on the move. I still look forward 
to the aeroplane corps; but I rather relish seeing a 
bit of fighting first. 

I doubt if I see you before you sail. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Seeger sends his best regards. 



THE LEGION 131 

July 21, 1915. 

Dear Alee: I wonder if I conveyed to you how well 
off we consider ourselves? Bianchi summed it all 
up by saying he did not use to believe in God, but 

since and have left and we keep the 

Lieutenant and acquire such a Captain, he does, sans 
blague. I shall regret it sincerely if my recall comes 
now before we have had an attack. The regiment, as 
I told you before, did incredible things at Arras; and 
yesterday it all turned out in a big field and without 
too much blair the Colonel decorated our Mitrailleuse 
Captain and six or eight of his men, besides giving the 
croix de guerre to two of the original section for having 
sustained a fierce counter attack, thereby holding 
valuable ground. Today being our third or fourth 
day only in the company (for the second old section 
of the 3?ne de Mar eke have been put in with the third 
of the 2nd) we arranged a target on a cliff and did a 
little shooting practice. I believe we shall do it every 
other day or so. This Captain knows his job and 
though they say he is strict he leaves us alone and 
we have great liberty. I have been down into the 
town and dined with Seeger and a Harvard under- 
graduate called King. He seems rolling in luxuries, 
smokes imported cigarettes and refuses to make a 
row when the bill is three times what it should be. 

I now predict that my heavenly prospects are just 
going to miss each other by hair-breadths — you will 
sail before I either get four days furlough or change 
to aviator. I shall be transferred to the Aviation just 
before this company goes into action and makes a 
brilliant attack. And the war will end just before I 
get my license and go to the front. 

What I want to impress upon you is that I am very 
happy here and doing intelligent exercise preparatory 
to some energetic attack, in a beautiful valley with 
contented, interesting companions. But there seems 



i 3 2 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

no hope of my getting my four days permission be- 
fore you go. Love to Papa. 

You* loving 
Victor. 

July 26, 191 5. 
Dear Alee: Of course I am prepared to leap with 
joy when my transfer does come. I was merely 
stating my feeling at being in a real regiment. You 
must think me very sunken in social morals to want 
to jilt what you have crossed the ocean for and have 
been working on for months. The Lieutenant gave 
us a little talk the other day on various prescribed 
subjects. In passing, he said the trouble with me was 
that I had too much sangfroid. Perhaps it's true. I 
don't move fast enough in critical junctures. Yester- 
day, being Sunday, we had repos. I bored myself at 
mass; but I found Heredia afterwards and arranged a 
rendezvous for the afternoon. I came up to the village 
in the valley where they were, and met Farnsworth, 
Sokovna and Heredia. We wandered up the stream to 
a very pretty double cascade, and then I induced the 
rest to go up the mountainside, to get a view from the 
ridges of the country. Very steep work it was, in 
thickly forested slopes of spruce and beech. We came 
at last to the ridge, and lo! there was a stone wall, 
smooth meadow-land, and in the hollow, near the 
center, a jolly little village with a church. Then 
wooded ravines, filmy blues and grays, vistas of 
plains. Farnsworth and Heredia went down to order 
dinner, while Sokovna and I chased round the rim of 
the bowl and sought more views. We thought we 
saw the foothills of the Alps; but I doubt it. The 
dinner was sumptuous, — new fried potatoes, not to 
speak of bacon and eggs, and ending off with blue- 
berry pie and raspberries. The forbidden wine, 
Kirsch (home made), warned us- that we must start 



THE LEGION 133 

for home, half an hour by the path and all downhill. 
We soon lost the path in the darkness; but were 
guided by the lights below us. I should say it was 
downhill — one's feet wandered off into air and then 
fell upon rolling stones, and ever the elusive shades of 
our comrades flitting on below. Again and again 
the ground seemed to become more gradual only to 
dive off steeper. Whether it was the good food or 
the stiff walk or both together, I don't know; at any 
rate I have been laid up with a most violent stomach- 
ache for the last twenty-four hours. 

As all such happy ballades end we walked all four 
almost down the main street and were accosted by 
the sergeant-du-jour who took our names, and com- 
panies for a rapport of having been found in the 
street ten minutes after the appel. Though I live 
in dread, nothing has come of it yet. 

I hardly think I put it strongly enough in the 
first of this letter how thankful I should be to be rid 
of lice once and for all, sleep in something better 
than straw, and have a table and chair to use. After 
this war if ever anyone asks me to go on a picnic I 
think I shall never speak to him again! However, 
there's a lot of difference in doing a thing one's own 
way. 

Your loving 
Victor. 



AVIATION 




Aviation. 



AVIATION 

August 8, 1915. 

Dear Alee: You ought to know when this reaches 
you that I have finally changed corps. A typical 
instance of the way things are done in the army is 
the way I was told the news. I was sitting in the 
sunshine playing mumble-the-peg with three or four 
others before mounting squad. Ames came up and 
whispered in my ear that a sergeant had just told 
him I was going to the Aviation. An hour or so later 
the sergeant, in an off-hand way, said I was to leave. 
That evening I met the Lieutenant who begged me 
not to forget to drop him a card. When or whither I 
was leaving no one seemed to know. The next day 
I almost collared the Lieutenant and we went to- 
gether to the Bureau. Oh yes, the demand had come 
for me to be sent without delay to the Gare Regula- 
trice de Gray: I was leaving at seven the next morn- 
ing. With many adieux and five fellows helping me 
on with my sack, I got off and presented myself in 
due course at the station of Champagny with a 
sealed letter of the Commissionaire Militaire. 

The contents of the letter proved that it was quite 
unnecessary to go to Gray since my destination was 
Nancy. "Change at Lure." A jolly unmodern town 
with a Grande Rue, Louis Quinze windows, key- 
stones, a pond and trees, and a provincial brown- 
stone Louis XIV chateau, — now the Sous-prefecture. 
At Ailleures, I waited again three hours. It was 
some time before I could find the town here. Finally 
I saw it across the track on a hill a mile off, with stone 
church, the image of a New England eighteenth 



138 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

century wood structure. Less amusing town than 
Lure, but with very pretty children (to whom I gave 
the cakes which a drummer had forced upon me 
in a cafe of Lure), and chickens perched on the 
window-sills. Groups of old women and young girls 
were industriously stuffing green litre bottles with 
new string beans; and I found an old farmer before 
the tobacco shop with a handsome yoke of oxen 
actually tied together with nothing more or less than 
his umbrella ! Oh, I forgot to tell you of the typical 
canny, old hay-seed that talked endlessly to a well- 
groomed country lawyer or doctor, in the train from 
Lure, about how much you could make on sheep in 
certain pastures: what were the best varieties of 
clover for early harvest: what kinds of grasses to 
plant with wheat: and why the old-fashioned brown 
barley was better than the other varieties in spite of 
its obvious defects, etc., and I could not get to sleep. 
He took me to a cafe with a territorial friend whom 
he found guarding at the station. We drank beer 
and they took snuff and both gave me sound advice 
on aviation — they were versed in mechanics, — the 
one knew a mowing-machine and the other ran a 
flour mill. Incidentally they were not a little dis- 
satisfied with the military bureaucracy: "These 
Parisian shop keepers who have never had as much 
as they are now touching a month as Captains, deal- 
ing out four days prison to respectable men of 45, 
requisitioning straw, etc." With difficulty I boarded 
the express. "Guilty of something underhand until 
proved to the contrary," seems the attitude of all the 
military officials. And they only let one by with a 
kind of despairing, resigned air, as though saying: 
"I suppose I'll have to. You beat me this time!" 
A pale, olive-complexioned young woman with a 
fair-haired little girl of two, sat opposite me. It was 
easy to see by her calm resolute, yet sad, face that 



AVIATION 139 

she had lost her husband in the war, even if she were 
not dressed in black. A grandmother and two un- 
interesting backfisch studiously read inferior funny 
sheets and deux sous novels. A tall respectable 
gentleman was resentfully given a place by the fe- 
males. 

I reached Nancy at 8:30 and, after the usual exam- 
ination, started on a train to Malzeville. Hardly a 
street lamp anywhere, yet in the darkness I saw a 
handsome mediaeval town-gate with towers and rows 
of gargoyles on the eaves of the houses we passed. 
At Nancy the train goes no further. "Twenty-five 
minutes walk up hill and with a sac! Are you mad?" 
This the advice of a couple of men who had just 
joined the Corps as mechanics. I turned to the cafe 
on the street corner and asked for information about 
Hotels. " Eh toil Poilu! d'oil viens tu? Fiens, prends 
un bock." In the semi-darkness on the sidewalk sat 
two fantas sins, two girls and an old man. They were 
all in exuberant spirits as though they had just met, 
and pressed me with questions. Where did I come 
from? going where? seen fighting? etc., all mixed in 
with adoring by-play between the sexes. I launched 
forth on the Legion, the Aviation, engage volontier; 
and incidentally let them know that I came from 
some Regiment — of which not much was left now, 
but which showed its temper at Carency, de Bettrau, 
de Lorette, etc. "And where do you come from?" 
said I. "Bois le Pretre." Oh! I changed my tone. 
Bois le Pretre: — the Germans call it. the Forest of 
Death — is about the most famous and dangerous 
section on all the Front, and the only place really on 
a par with Arras because of the heavy fighting there 
since last autumn. "Yes, we have been there a year 
now and I tell you we were glad to get off." "On 
permission?" "No, we just beat it. It's only 
twenty kilometres off. M., here, is a telephonist, and 



i 4 o LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

we got across the Moselle bridge by pretending to be 
mending the line." The beer was very, very good. 
" Tiens, je connais un Americain de V ambulance. 
Son nom de famille ne me reviens pas, mats tout le 
monde Vappelle ' Villie' 0'est le type le plus charmant, 
le plus gentil que je n'ai jamais vu" Of course it was 
Willie Iselin. The long and the short of it, I was taken 
to the house of the larger Poilu. The prettiest girl 
was his wife, the other, the wife of his foreman, — he 
being a rubber manufacturer and engineer. His 
friend, the telephonist, who wore the regimental blue 
tie as though it were a silk cravat at a wedding, was 
in the Peugeot automobile business. Everything in 
the house was higgledy-piggledy: two days' unwashed 
dishes in the kitchen; but who cared? Cold meats 
were produced from somewhere, lima beans heated, 
much time and discussion was expended on a mayon- 
naise which looked splendid when finally created; but 
later we discovered it to be devoid of vinegar. Red 
wine and champagne, and then a fellow in blue jeans 
came in, very solemn, like the boy in Pickwick grown 
older, and explaining how he had found the house the 
first try, sat down at the end of the table. "One 

of my workmen," said M. B , "in the artillery, 

wounded twice, has croix de guerre" The round 
faced man remained very quiet all through dinner; 
but I suspect he consumed his share of the seductive 
white liqueur which I was introduced to, called Mira- 
belle, — a great friend for trench-life, but there is such 
a thing as pushing it too far. 

They told me how from time to time they had 
private truces with the German sentinels, traded 
cigars and magazines, even had signals — three shots 
in the air for a change of guards, so that the other 
fellow should know that he must not show himself 
any more. "Odd, the way it works, this mobilization 
of labor and recall of mechanics from the Front," 



AVIATION 141 

said the rubber manufacturer, showing me a wad of 
what appeared to be mattress-stuffing, "the beard I 
shaved this morning. They have requisitioned my 
shop and pay me one franc a day, besides they intend 
to remove the lathes, etc. (Not if I know it!) Now 
being a patron I recall my men, but I can't recall 
myself. Hence I remain at Bois le Pretre." Finally 
the little old man with the drooping gray moustache 
took me to his house where I slept in a feather bed 
with a Mauser and a Bavarian casque on the wall 
beside me. I took coffee with the poilus next morn- 
ing and presented each girl with a little aluminum 
ring. 

Here I find myself in the Escadrille of Cowdin and 
Prince; but for the moment they are both away, 
Cowdin getting another machine at Paris, and 
Prince in the north with a cannon de 35- 

August 9. 

Queer crowd these mechanic embusques, so far as 
comfort goes! Yet they go out and get pulled down 
with equanimity. They have the civilian's point of 
view of the dangers of the war, yet think nothing of 
it when their copan so-and-so gets killed trying out a 
new machine. It's because it's their profession, — 
most of them were in it before the war. This letter 
was disturbed last evening by the Brittany sailors. — 
They are here for the little cannon that are mounted 
on some of the machines. "La Loopine! le voild qui 
fait la loopine/" Running out behind the little pine 
groves onto the plain, all about on the horizon were 
the voisins sailing slowly like buzzards, or passing 
serenely overhead. But right above was a small 
moth-shaped " appareil" going over and over like a 
flat stone on the end of a string. Near it, gliding on 
its wing-tip, a similar bird; now dipping, now rising 
on its edge with the sun glistening the length of its 
fuselage, like a pickerel darting from the water. Just 



i 4 2 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

a couple of Nieuports which have come from the 
station. They show they are in good form and not 
fatigued by the journey in doing a stunt or two be- 
fore descending. " This morning "bombardment," 
up at 3:30, still half dark. A few bright stars, the 
moon a silver crust with the suggestion of the whole 
moon outlined above. Flaming crests of cloud 
emerging from a dull blue bank. All over the field 
the screech of engines tuning up, then they run 
along the ground to the starting positions. Cannon 
factories are to be bombarded. Each group is by 
itself. One by one they run along the ground and 
off into space. Five, seven, twelve, nineteen, twenty- 
six — I lose count. They keep going away towards 
the horizon and then circle overhead. A lull, no 
more going up; but from above comes the ceaseless 
buzzing like locusts in a wood. Seventy-one left 
altogether, they tell me, and one of our group has 
not come back. I am affected here as mitrailleur, and 
wait Cowdin's return. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Malzeville, 
Friday, August 20, 191 5. 
Dear Alee: I was over-joyed and entranced to re- 
ceive your delightful letter with the interesting en- 
closures. A day or so after I received my change of 
corps and was sent here to Nancy. I found myself in 
the Escadrille of Prince and Cowdin, as mitrailleur or 
bombardier. Both are away. Prince is said to be in 
the north with an Avion cannon, and Cowdin is in 
Paris presumably getting a new machine. It has 
been very dull here. I did not kick at once to be 
sent to a school to learn to pilot, as I had understood 
from Cowdin that one could learn at the Front, 
without being side-tracked for a considerable time 



AVIATION 143 

in the rear; and a little practical experience, I 
thought, would help me in any case. Well, neither 
of them has returned, and since a young Lieutenant 
turned up I was assigned to him and have made three 
or four trial flights. I have written to Prince and 
Cowdin; but evidently I've not their address. So I 
have written to Paris to find out the state of affairs. 
This morning, having put the letter in the box, I 
leisurely came over from the tent where we sleep, to 
the aeroplanes. There was to have been, at six 
o'clock, bomb-dropping practice. My arrival was 
heralded by shouts, " Depeche-toi! Le Capitaine 
fappelle." The latter called me over and said that 
since I made such a face about not being allowed to 
go with the Russian Lieutenant the other day, would 
I like to take Parran's mechanic's place and go on the 
big raid on the Imperial Palace at Treves. "Je ne 
demande pas mieux." "You know how to load the 
155 and the use of the sighting machine?" "Yes." 
So they bundled me up in overshoes and fur coats, 
rammed a passe-montagne and a casque on my head, 
and led me over to the spot where the machines were 
already lined up. I cranked the motor and watched 
the machines before us depart at intervals of fifteen 
seconds. Sixty left in all, so I am told. But I forgot 
to explain to you that this corps is for nothing but 
bombardments, and they are all Voisins here, except 
two or three Nieuports to chase Aviatics if they come 
to Nancy. The appareil before us left, and we 
bounced over the ground and glided off the plateau. 
The weather was clear, few clouds, only near the 
ground were bits of mist looking like the wool which 
sticks to a dark suit after one has been lying on a 
bed. Our route was not to go straight across the 
lines at Pont-a-Mousson, but passing by way of 
Toul, Commercy, and St. Mihiel to cross the ligne 
de feu north of Verdun, and thence, a direct course 



i 4 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

to Treves. You don't know what it looks like to be 
in an aeroplane with the land of France below; its 
woods cut with straight edges and the patch quilt 
of cultivated land in tiny rectangles. The French 
like to make everything in straight lines, and this 
well-populated region shows the effect. We gained 
a good altitude over the forest between Nancy and 
Toul — 12 to 1800 metres; but I began to find more 
and more fuzzy clouds in the low lands and river 
valleys. West of Toul, where we crossed the Meuse 
and followed it, the north wind became very strong; 
but below us the banks of mist became thicker and 
thicker. North of Commercy we lost sight of the 
earth altogether under two layers of clouds, one 
sticking like a blanket to the earth, and another 
flowing under us. It was like Alice in Wonderland, 
where one had to run very fast to stay in the 
same place. The view ahead and on the east side 
was like snow-fields of soft wet snow, with here and 
there hillocks rising in it with blue shadows. The 
sun shone full upon us, and looking down I could see 
our faint shadow on the filmy veil of moving clouds 
surrounded by sometimes one, often two rainbows, 
which formed a complete circle. Before us ever 
bobbed and dipped other appareils. Sometimes one 
saw only three or four, sometimes fifteen or more. 
Oddly we appeared always to fly steadily in a straight 
line, yet the other planes flitted from side to side 
and dipped below one another. Now and then, in 
the crevices between the clouds, we saw bits of 
trenches, for inadvertently, we had crossed the 
salient. Trenches from above, with their boyaux, 
look like the worn furrows one sees on dead tree 
trunks when the bark is removed. 

Then we began to notice that all the aeroplanes 
before us veered off to the west, and I suddenly saw 
a ball of white smoke which I afterwards learned 



AVIATION 145 

was the signal to return because of unfavorable 
weather. There was a rift in the clouds just where 
we wheeled and the German gunners must have 
noticed us, for they sent several shrapnel shells up. 
One gets such an enormous feeling of space, having 
nothing definitely near one, that those little puffs of 
smoke looked pitiably inadequate and ill placed. 
Twenty odd planes I counted distinctly before me 
at the turning point. We fled south, always with the 
other machines flitting before, and got our bearings 
again by seeing ground and the big double curve 
that the Meuse makes by St. Mihiel, with a canal 
like a bow-string across it. It was far less foggy to 
the south. We passed over Void and were flying 
lower as we neared Toul. Toul itself looks like an 
ancient walled town. At any rate it has a fringe of 
trees all round it which slopes down to the river's 
edge on two sides, narrow intricate streets and red 
roofs with a big twin-towered cathedral emerging 
from the place, like a picture of similar edifices on 
bad maps of Paris. Again the forest with its edges 
as though cut by a scissors, and straight lines of 
roads traced across it. Odd, the roads in the open 
wind all over creation, but on entering the woods 
they go straight as an arrow as though to form pre- 
arranged geometrical patterns. Nancy, a great 
irregular cluster of houses, is easily recognized by the 
two great cones of iron ore debris south of the town 
near the river. They must be very large for they 
look as large as a city block, — one is black, the other 
white. Then, taking a dip, we sailed down to the 
aviation field with its white tents and numerous 
aeroplanes looking like so many white moths pinned 
on a green background. As we drew near and I saw 
the trees and suburban gardens on a large scale, it 
came upon me how very much greener they were 
getting. The little willows and the tall grass by the 



146 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

very crooked little stream just sparkled in emeralds 
and sapphires when seen from 2000 metres (that's a 
mile and a quarter). 

I started this to Uncle Willy, but suddenly remem- 
bered that everything was opened on entering 
Switzerland, and the names here given are perhaps 
of military importance. I hope to go on another raid 
tomorrow if the weather is fine. I have done not a 
little mitrailleuse practice lately, otherwise it is very 
dull here. 

My best love to all. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Malzeville, August 24, 191 5. 

August 25, 191 5. 

Dear Conrad: Yesterday I made my first successful 
raid into Germany. It has been put off so long that 
it was judged best to change the place. However, 
yesterday morning we lined up the machines for a 
start. At the other end of the plateau the machines 
were following each other into the air when — zu-zz- 
bung! The signal for a German aeroplane, and then 
we noticed smoke balls in the sky. The little "75" 
on the field began to speak, and then above us run- 
ning fast, though at a great height, soared an Aviatic. 
Four black puffs of smoke ballooned out successively 
across the field, — the last one landing well among the 
sheds. The Boche turned off and vanished. 

At last we were off and, following the Meurthe 
river southeast, we quickly passed over St. Nicholas 
and shortly reached the rendez-vous above the village 
of Gerbevillier where we circled round and round to 
get our height and await the others. Height, you 
know, is a great security, for the greater distance you 
are up the more chance you have, if your motor 



AVIATION 147 

stops, not to land on a forest, or, in this case, behind 
the German lines. With 22 to 2600 metres and head 
wind one can sail a good way. Prince, I believe, 
made 26 kilometres. Our group (about twenty), 
continued to circle round. I began to wonder if they 
were squealing that the weather was unfavorable. 
There was a slight haze which, dropping a little 
above the horizon a shimmering white to the south 
fading into an opaque purple at the north, hid the 
details of the farther landscape and revealed unwill- 
ingly the nearer. Yet directly below it always seemed 
clear enough. 

Keeping my eyes on the Captain's taxi I saw a 
white ribbon of smoke, — the starting signal. It 
reminded me of a trotting race and "They're off!" 
after the half-hour's jockeying round and round. It 
was now nearly eight and we took our course about 
1 5° east of north. (Get a map if you can and follow). 
Leaving Luneville to westward we crossed succes- 
sively the Meurthe, Vezouse and Sanon, and I be- 
came interested in a muddy lake north of the Marne- 
Rhine canal. Lakes are the best landmarks. We 
were right over firing lines now. Roads branched out 
into numerous paths and these became worm-holes, — 
the boyaux and trenches. The spotty little villages 
showed often no red roofs, only gray walls. I remem- 
ber Arracourt — very easy to spot because it lies 
entirely along one great street, hardly a bit of brick 
red left. Now we were not only in the German lines, 
but in German territory. The puffs of white smoke 
to the right and left of the "cuckoes" ahead showed 
we were noticed. Ah, to the north a big pond, Linden 
Wethof. By it the town of Dieuze, a railroad (I'm 
getting so I can recognize them now. They always 
look grayer in comparison to the yellow highways, 
and have less sharp turns), and chateau — Salins to 
the west. 



148 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

We crossed the railroad and here I noticed a town 
with German influence. Yes, one end of it the 
typical huddle of roofs, but to the east bunches of 
trees separating the houses, and then bigger houses 
and courts — barracks! of course; but my! there were 
lots of them in Morchingen. "Wind coming from 
northeast," I told the Lieutenant on a piece of paper, 
judging from the ripples on Bordi-Wether, a splendid 
lake to recognize because of three prongs to the 
south. St. Val and the forest we passed over, and 
then the Lieutenant jogged me to make a sighting so 
as to get our speed for dropping the projectile. Plac- 
ing the sights successively at the spots marked for 
the height we were (2400 metres) I took two views 
of the same object, keeping the time with a stop 
watch (31 seconds) and by this means get the spot on 
the curve of my projectile for that height. We must 
be nearing the spot for the Lieutenant motioned me 
to load the projectile. This is by far the most 
difficult operation, for the 155 shell with its tin tail 
looking like a torpedo four feet long, is hung under 
the body and without seeing its nose even one has to 
reach down in front of the pilot, put the detonateur in, 
then the percuteur and screw it fast. After which I 
pulled off a safety device. You may imagine how I 
scrambled round in a fur coat and two pair of leather 
trousers and squeezed myself to get my arm down the 
hole. I really had a moment's nervousness that the 
detonateur would not stay in the hole but fly back 
into the helice. However, all went well and the 
Lieutenant handed me the plan of the town of Dil- 
lingen where there were said to be huge casting works. 
Bad map it was and I got nothing out of the inaudible 
explanations and gestures. We were just passing 
over the river Saar by Pachten. Everything on the 
detail map was red. I still have scruples about 
dropping on dwelling houses — they might be Alsa- 



AVIATION 149 

tians. Right under us was a great junction of rail- 
way lines, tracks and sidings. "That's a go," I 
thought, and pulled the handle when it came in the 
sighter. A slight sway and below me the blue-gray 
shell poised and dipped its head. Straight away and 
then it seemed to remain motionless. Pretty soon its 
tail began to wag in small circles and then I lost sight 
of it over some tree-tops. "Pshaw," I thought, 
"there it's going to fall on its side, and into a garden. 
Tant pis!" When all at once, in the middle of the 
railroad tracks a cloud of black smoke which looked 
big even from that height. The Lieutenant said 
afterwards that I rocked the whole ship when I saw 
where it had fallen! 

We turned to the south and setting myself back 
on my collapsible seat I drew out some chocolates 
and fed some to the Lieutenant. The wind behind 
us, now we were running along, I found difficulty in 
keeping it on the map. We crossed two railroad 
lines, that was Bolchen, and giving a berth to Metz 
on account of its guns, headed toward the lines at 
Nomeny. There before us were sixteen Voisins, and 
there ought to be a Nieuport or two to protect us 
from those Boche hawks. Some were quite near and 
the glint of their propellers shone, when on closer 
inspection the nearest propeller was hardly turning. 
The aeroplane sunk lower and lower and disappeared 
below us. White puffs of smoke to our right and left 
announced random shots at us. There was Pont-a- 
Mousson, and below us again finely engraved trench 
patterns with every little knoll and wood's edge 
fortified by the zigzag pattern. The river-valley 
lay ahead, the railroads and factories and Nancy be- 
hind the plateau. Swinging lower over the western 
woods we re-crossed the river and glided onto the 
plateau. Ten forty-five and we had only left at seven 
o'clock. 



ISO LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

From a good altitude the country looks like noth- 
ing so much as a rich old Persian carpet. Where the 
fields are cultivated one sees the soil now a rich 
pinky red fading into a light yellow, or running into 
dark browns. The green fields, oblong patches and 
the brick-roofed villages like figures on the carpets 
connected by threads of roads and rivers; superposed 
upon it here and there in big and little patches — al- 
ways with straight edges — are the woods, a dull, 
darkish green, for they are pine woods. In the direc- 
tion of the sun the bits of water shine silver. In the 
opposite direction they are blue, but the darkest 
objects to be seen, — making the woods seem pale in 
contrast. 

Show this letter to Papa and Dear Ma. There 
were said to have been seventy who left yesterday, — 
only two lost. One man was killed and two wrecked 
by the Aviatic. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Picardy, northwest of Amiens, 

September 5, 1915. 
Dear Alee: All the past week we have been chang- 
ing domicile. Monday packing everything, Tuesday 
morning the last finishing touches — as heaving tents 
and personal belongings all into the autos and 
ramorques. No train, no orders. Wednesday came 
and went, also Thursday. Finally Friday morn- 
ing we started for the station and put all the trucks 
on flat cars, and left that evening. Arrived here, 
S. P. 102, near St. Paul-en-Tennoise this morn- 
ing. I did not have so bad a journey, having found 
the ramorque (trailer) with our luggage, ^ and lay 
out comfortably reading the New York Times and 
London Times Editorials, gifts from Uncle Willy and 
Mr. Jaccaci respectively. Finally I became too 



AVIATION 151 

saturated and pulled out Emerson, and really got 
started in on "Great Men." At intervals I ate and 
divided with a couple of mecaniciens, patees and 
sausages. Here I am again back in Picardy; same 
flat country, same villages with their hedges and 
horse ponds, one-storey houses and muddy streets. 
No, the inhabitants are not so cordial or forthcoming 
as in the eastern provinces. For instance, the last 
night in Malzeville I decided that I would not sleep 
out on the open on the plateau, so after dinner in a 
little auberge I tried to beat up a hole. It was nine 
o'clock and pitch dark. (No street lamps.) The 
girl of the cafe got information of a room in one side 
street. She went ahead yelling the good woman's 
name. Blinds went up, woman's head popped out: 
" M Hit aire qui veut un lit pour la nuit." Down they 
come, two of them, they suggest this house, try 
that, — find a bed but not the owner and go off on a 
wild hunt for the latter. Meanwhile the second lady 
I had routed out takes me into her kitchen and 
entertains me with conversation and anisette, till 
the owner of the spare bed is discovered at a friend's 
house. More anisette, healths, handshakes and a 
comfortable bed. How different from the tooth- 
extracting method I had to pursue this morning to 
get some rope for a hammock. "No, she only had 
string so much the kilo." But what's that behind the 
paper? "For hitching-ropes." While I was looking 
it over and taking fifty sous' worth she was actually 
grudging me the time, saying she had other things to 
do. The night's lodging at Malzeville incidentally 
was only a franc. Still the tile-roofed, white-washed 
mud homes here are charming and recall Hangest and 
other villages. On the whole this little village looks 
cleaner than the ones to the eastward which I am 
used to. Gray stone and brick gable ends. Clean, 
unimaginative colors almost like poster designs, so 



iS2 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

different from the hazy pinks, violets and emeralds of 
the Nancy region. 

I have the latest wrinkle now. It's a hammock, 
strung very tight and padded to sleep in. It comes 
in particularly well tonight, for no straw was given 
out. Back to barn life. One sees how picturesque 
it is after a month in tents. In fact, the soldier at 
the front is about the most picturesque animal I can 
think of, except perhaps an oriental beggar; and his 
psychology is peculiar. But we are so wrapped up 
in doing something, or in complaining how bored we 
are, that we don't think of it. It's like the attitude of 
the College undergraduate, inexplicable to anyone 
else. I can't go into it now for it's late and the last 
man has got into bed; but the soldier's joy is the 
getting of everything for nothing, and disregard for 
the value. Chop up tables and chairs to make fire 
for soup, one day, instead of looking farther, and be 
forced next week to construct the same most in- 
geniously from branches and small boxes. 

Sunday, September 10, 191 5. 

Dear Alee: I was much moved by your letter on the 
wings of prayer. I could write oftener, I have the 
time and the inclination; but I find my thoughts run 
easily only on critical subjects. 

I blazed away at a target with the mitrailleuse 
yesterday afternoon, and when we got through and 
came back to the tents I wandered off picking dan- 
delions for salad, not that I eat it with relish but a 
fellow said he could make it excellent with sauce. 
The Avion cannons came over to practice on a target 
and a little captive balloon with some new variety of 
shell. Among them Prince, who returned from 
Paris that morning with another machine. I found 
him rushing round to get the springs on his "aileron 
de profondeur" strengthened before the shooting. 



AVIATION iS3 

Everything is going to come out all right pretty soon. 
He is coming over this morning and we'll lunch to- 
gether somewhere and patch up some scheme to get 
me taught at once. Perhaps there is a school-Farman 
on his field, and we could borrow it, while I would be 
designated to his machine as aide-mecanicien or the 
like. But u il s'agit" to fix it up with the authorities. 
The Commandant of this group is said to have an 
interest in the Voisin concern; however that may be 
he discourages demands for pilotages on every other 
machine. Prince says there are two Americans 
already at the Front in Nieuports and in a month or so 
the Escadrille will really be formed. It's being put 
off for the moment, because probably the first two 
are doing so well, and they are short of that type. 
Besides there are military operations, etc. 

September II, 1915. 
Dear Chanler: Last night we had almost a feast 
with a large hare a fellow shot the other day, cooked 
by a large fat Marseillais, who claims to have once 
prepared a banquet for the Lord Mayor of London. 
In any case it was very good, for we scraped up a 
glassful of Madeira and some seasoning herbs. The 
pink-complexioned, orange-moustached Manieser had 
a long serious discussion with the Lord Mayor's 
cook and the mouldy little, ragged-bearded corporal, 
Duval, on new Russian victories and the imminent 
fate of Constantinople. I turned to listen to the 
gossip of the younger group at the other end of the 
table, — three long planks nailed on a barrel and 
lighted by a couple of candles and a home-made 
gasolene lamp. They are mostly of the class of 
quinze. A black-haired Breton, Putingnon, rather 
duller than the rest and therefore scorned, for he 
jumps into a conversation from the other end of the 
table, without really being aware what it is about, as 



i 5 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

"Qa fait du bien, tout de meme de manger la gamelle de 
temps en temps" — when they were talking of cheese. 

There was Vincent, a little light-complexioned, 
smiling chap from the neighborhood of Nancy. It 
was he who rounded up the hare. Then, de Phillipon, 
a large black-eye-browed athletic, — I guess he is of 
the class 12 or 13 for he has been in the game since 
the beginning, and has even the " croix de guerre." 
He shot the hare. Bar-le-Duc, a white-faced, 
lantern-jawed Lillois, self-effacing, intelligent fellow, 
knows quite a bit of English. Incidentally he told 
me that de Phillipon destroyed his house in the 
suburbs of Lille, beside a railway station. The latter 
aimed at the station but hit the house. By escaped 
refugees it appeared to be a lucky shot, for it killed 
three German Commandants and thirty odd soldiers. 
Beside these come Millet, a pretty pink-cheeked 
boy, who got into the Aviation because his father 
supplied studded canvas to some aeroplane firm. He 
and his inseparable companion, a taller, more mascu- 
line type, have the hammocks which I copied, and 
supplied the stove for cooking the hare. Lastly there 
was the Dragon-ordinance of the Lieutenant, a short, 
stocky, blue-eyed fellow with seventeen hairs on each 
side of his nose carefully rolled together and pointed. 
Every one of these young men have moustaches, as 
every Frenchman should; but in most cases one has 
to look closely to discover it. 

After remarking on the outrageous price of wine 
here — fifteen sous the litre — they turned to discuss- 
ing the characters of the Conducteurs (auto drivers). 
I didn't follow the ins and outs, not knowing the 
names; but the general conclusion was they were 
paysans and, with one or two passable exceptions, 
unworthy of being associated with the mecanos. 
The party broke up, — Vincent playing a few sensa- 
tional Parisian ditties on a broken-winded accordion. 



AVIATION 155 

The Lord Mayor's cook ponderously climbed the 
ladder into the hay loft, and I arranged my peau de 
bique (goat-skin coat to cover me in the hammock), 
and folded up my newspaper. 

September 20, 191 5. 
Dear Papa: My demand went through. I go in 
two days to Avord, near Bourges. Poor hole, I hear. 
However, I shall learn to fly. The American end of 
it is coming on very well, Prince tells me. He is in a 
camp near by, — I took French leave and spent the 
day with him. He came over and hustled things 
along for me. Eight Americans at the Front and 
twelve training. Prince has permission for an un- 
limited number at the schools now and is very 
anxious to get as many as possible. 

Camp d'Avord, Sept. 27, 191 5. 
Well, at last I was given my "Ordre de Service" 
and ticket to come here. I stopped off three days 
at Paris and saw Cowdin, Jaccaci, Hester, Laura and 
Kisling. Cowdin treated me like a brick, and the 
American Flying Corps will really go through after 
this attack. Cowdin has Barres' word for it. With a 
letter from Prince, I had no difficulty getting into 
the Morane School, — the slowest and most difficult 
machine to learn on, but makes a better pilot. I find 
a compatriot I am proud to own here. A tall, 
lanky Kentuckian, called Rockwell. He got his 
transfer about a month ago from the Legion. He 
was wounded on the ninth of May, like Kisling. In 
fact one-half of the zme de Marche, 2300, were 
wounded that day, not counting the killed and 
missing. He gives much the best account I have 
heard. Having charged with the third battalion and 
being wounded in the leg on the last bouck, he 
crawled back across the entire field in the afternoon. 



156 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

At this moment I have mixed feelings of pride, envy 
and sorrow, for he has just received a postal from a 
friend who has returned to the Regiment. They were 
given a banner, and three days ago they were up 
where the big advance took place. On account of 
their reputation and the general understanding that 
they were reserved for attack, the regiment must 
have been in the very thick of it, and has enormous 
losses. Even Rockwell is chafing because he changed 
too soon. "There is nothing like it, you float across 
the field, you drop, you rise again. The sack, the 
325 extra rounds, the gun — have no weight. And a 
ball in the head and it is all over, — no pain." 

Avord, October 2, 191 5. 
Dear Alee: I am in the Morane School. This 
includes the baby Moranes, the Bleriots, the parasol 
Moranes and the Nieuports. All, save the last, are 
monoplanes. Now a monoplane is a more delicate 
apparatus to pilot than a biplane. Hence we go very 
much slower, but we end by learning more and being 
better pilots. In the Maurice Farman, a big biplane, 
one begins by the double-command-1913 model, sail- 
ing in the air with a monitor. One goes alone on 
the 191 3, after which 1914-double-command. Then 
on the 1914 alone. All this is done in the air, and 
since the machine is big and a fine planer it re- 
sponds slowly to the "commands" and is apparently 
easy to handle; but in an emergency one is not used 
to doing things fast, so trouble may follow. At 
Morane School I began on the baby and rolled and 
rolled, first dragging the tail, then with the tail 
elevated, and finally making little jumps. It looks 
like a big June bug or brown moth. Since it is made 
to go in the air it is extremely delicate to roll about 
the fields on, and the moment the tail ceases to be 
directly behind, it swings about in what they call 



AVIATION 157 

chevaux de hois (merry-go-rounds). Thus one gets 
a long time of practice in manipulating the com- 
mands, till they become second nature. We shall 
next move to a machine on which we take long leaps 
and bounds, then a big Morane or • Bleriot, and 
finish on the Nieuport. The Test consists in three 
events: — to go up to 2000 metres and remain one 
hour; to make a ligne droit of 60 odd kilometres; and 
last, a triangle to Chartres and some other place, 
during which one "vol-planes" down 500 metres 
and lands in any field. I have taken eight spins of 
ten minutes each so far and still turn more often 
than I go straight. 

Your loving 
Victor. 



Camp d'Avord, October 5, 191 5. 

Dear Papa: There is a Grotonian, Farnsworth, in 
the Legion and I cannot find out whether he is dead 
or alive. The Legion was practically wiped out on 
the 25th in Champagne. I have written to eight or 
ten fellows but have no answers as yet. Ames is 
wounded and in a hospital. Rockwell has letters 
from two wounded chaps. At any rate Farnsworth, 
though he may be considered a scapegrace by Groton, 
is more of a hero, dead or alive, than either Cowdin or 
myself; for as a common poilu he has been in a 
terrific modern attack. 

My old Escadrille at the Front has been doing 
some work bomb-dropping, I hear. One of the ob- 
servers was wounded by an eclat and a Pilot had 
his leg frozen. The German diplomats have put 
one over those of the Allies in the Balkans. Rouma- 
nia won't start and Bulgaria has gone over to the 
enemy, I see. A fine letter that of Mr. Davison. I 
hope it was copied by the other papers. Very slow 



158 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

this schooling is. Better to go slow than be killed, 
however. 

Camp d'Avord, October 10, 191 5. 

Dear Alee: At last I am getting under way and 
beginning to learn to fly. Rose thought I had a 
hard hand and would do better to learn on a double- 
command Maurice Farman; so I enquired which 
was the most serious of the M. F. Schools and 
got permission from the Commandant-de-Centre to 
change. The engine had to be repaired in the D. C. 
'13, so I did not get started until day before yester- 
day, and I have flown about an hour and a quarter 
since. It is all a question of balance, as one stays 
upright in a canoe, or as one sails a boat, now yield- 
ing, now opposing; and, as is the case of a sailboat, 
the most difficult manoeuvre is making a landing. 

In the afternoon or late morning when one goes 
out, there are lots of little flaws in the air even if 
there is no wind. A constant slap, slap, or boosting 
up, or little unpleasant sinking feelings, sometimes 
in the middle or again on one side, — so that it is a 
constant preoccupation to be righting the balance 
and easing off the shocks. But in the evening (I 
went up last night about sundown), it is delicious. 
Never a waver. We sped on with even exactitude 
through the atmosphere as though we were gliding 
on a mirrored lake, the rich purple and crimson haze 
below and before. Having risen to 6 or 800 metres we 
descended with almost a dead engine in a spiral, and 
opened out again to glide on to the table land called 
the piste. 

No, I have not got to that state of efficiency in 
which to cope with spirals yet; but I can cope with 
most of the landings. 



AVIATION 159 

Halloween — 191 5. 
I get the idea that you — and Alee especially — are 
wearing yourselves out worrying and praying about 
the danger I am in, or were rather, when I was at the 
front, and will again when I return. It's all very 
parental and I appreciate it, but I wish you would 
not because it rather takes the edge off, and prin- 
cipally because it does not benefit me or anyone. 
This is the first thing I have ever done that has been 
worth while, or may ever do, and you might just as 
well get the benefit of it without the heart-wringing 
worry. It's a sin against herself to love to that 
extent, — to be so tender-hearted. Suppose I thought 
she was getting sick with worry, and deserted, — or 
even took a post as monitor at the school after I was 
brevte (quite an easy thing to do) and never returned 
to the front. I flatter myself to think that you both 
are getting a lot of fun out of this all the time, as you 
did in Paris last Summer, and perhaps see things 
and men you would not if I had not joined. Why 
not take the good and leave the bad? It is easier to 
pilot an aeroplane than drive an auto when you get 
on, and far less dangerous than the autoing I used to 
do daily at Cambridge. 

November, 191 5. 
Dear Alee: For the last two weeks now nearly I 
have been leading a luxurious self-indulgent life. 
With a French marine named St. Maurice I have a 
room in a court in a tiny village near the field. The 
great luxury of soft beds and sheets has been such 
that combined with the enormous quantity of fresh 
air we have, nothing can keep us awake after dinner. 
We rise at about 5:30, cook chocolate and often 
meat, then go up to the field at dawn. Returning 
about dusk we set about making a fire, and having 
stopped at the butcher on the way down, we proceed 



160 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

to concoct an excellent dinner. Our patron, you must 
know, has a grocery shop so we just drop in and buy 
things as we need them. Once a week she has fine 
fresh oysters straight from the sea, and in the cellar 
is some wine, nothing wonderful, but six or eight 
years old and for twenty-five sous it is remarkable. 
The great drawback is that I seem to find no time 
to write or even to read. As is always the case we 
pass our time standing round on the field, and do 
little or nothing besides talking. I finally was re- 
leased from double command and with four others 
had an antediluvian '13 model appareil all to our- 
selves. Luckily the engine was not old and gave us 
little trouble. But its whole appearance was that 
of the one-horse shay on the centenary of the earth- 
quake day. "It holds together because it has the 
habit," was the opinion among us eleves. Whenever 
I changed a piano-cord I felt that I ought to get a 
thin rusty one so as not to over-balance or insult it. 
Day before yesterday it died in harness, and just as 
completely as the shay. One of the little tail rudders 
is the only distinguishable feature. The rest is 
debris in the general outline of an aeroplane. The 
imprint or phantom of an appareil was what made 
me recognize the spot as I flew over it yesterday. It 
wasn't the fault of age, that accident however. The 
poor fellow driving it pique' 'd from some 300 metres 
and came down vertically. Not a thing to do with 
biplanes — they get "engaged" and it is very difficult 
to change their direction, — so he collided with the 
earth. It makes me a little reticent about telling 
you, for you say it might just as well have been me. 
I did piquer a bit steep on it the evening before. But 
I am past that danger now. Besides I have moved 
on to the '14 model machines which are newer and 
far more responsive to handle. Your loving 

Victor. 



AVIATION 161 

Avord, December 6, 191 5. 
Dear Alee: I flew this afternoon — quite a rare 
occurrence during these few last weeks. It was 
clear weather for a wonder, — at least the sun shone 
out between the beaten clouds, and a stiff breeze was 
blowing. u Ca draillonne enormement" said the fel- 
low, as he got out of the body, when finally I had my 
turn, " et le gauchissement ne repond pas. Regarde 
comme e'est mou!" and he twanged the twisted wire 
cable. I buckled the strap round my hips. " Ca vai " 
he shouted to tell me there were no Avions coming 
up behind and I opened the gas and started off into 
the wind. The machine left the ground almost 
immediately and I had to hold it down to keep 
headway. Then it began to buck, squirm and 
wriggle. It slid off to the right, to the left, took a 
short plunge downward and then attempted to rear. 
The earth, a scrawny tree or two, looked near and 
menacing, but the gauchissement responded very 
well. As I gained a little height (75-100 metres) I 
felt more at home. "My! what a pleasure to see the 
mountains again after that monotonous plain." 
For, from a little height, already the slightly va- 
riegated horizon stood out a deep rich blue. It 
added the necessary contrast to bring out the soft 
silver grays and hazy browns of the land with the 
baby blues and faint pinks of the sky and clouds. 
My thoughts were interrupted by a ratte or two of 
the engine, and I gave a casual glance at the field 
under me — in case the engine should stop and I must 
come down. Heading towards the artificial village 
of artillery, I was skirting the edge of the camp with- 
out advancing at all. Slowly it seemed I was moving 
sidewise always facing the sinking sun. "I never 
saw that before," thought I. In the valley before 
me the little stream had flooded the low ground, and 
there, depicted in the little patches of water were the 



i62 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

pinky, pale-blue clouds. I turned and swooped 
along with the wind. The buffeting was much less 
now, merely a rise and fall like a ground swell, and 
the land was racing by underneath. Here were big 
areas of hardwood forests, — gray individual trees 
sticking up all over out of rich copper-colored foliage. 
The foolish little winding creek with poplars like 
spear heads stuck along its course. A funny little 
house with yellow gravel and lawn about it. Then, a 
pasture and patchwork of cultivated fields. These 
looked like handsome well-worn carpets with the 
warp shown up in places, green against gray. Now I 
leaned hard to the right and came back into the wind, 
heading to the ten little match boxes (the M. F. 
hangars) where white bits of paper were ranged 
about. When I seemed about near enough I shut 
off the engine and pointed down, and but for the 
strap would have been lifted out of the seat by the 
sharpness of my descent. I pulled it over to the 
right, then eased it, and in my intentness actually 
stopped humming some innocent air. The ground, 
the shrubs and the grass came up, up, for I was just 
above the ground. The machine lost its momentum 
and sank down. I must post this. Best love till 
another day. 

Your loving 
Victor. 



Avord, Jan. 6, 1916. 
Dear Alee: Hall, an American who has been fly- 
ing in Cowdin's Escadrille, is here as monitor for a 
month's rest. He is a thin-faced, keen-looking fel- 
low. I have a letter from Uncle Willy; he is at 
Paris (25 Champs Elysees), I suppose you know, and 
is having a rush order put through on his wooden 
leg. I am now enjoying the companionship (and 



AVIATION 163 

care) of a small black and white puppy. It just 
dropped in and stayed one night, and since it has a 
good head and is clean, besides being coveted by my 
friends, I keep it. The horrible thought has now 
come to me that it may grow to the size of a 
St. Bernard! 

I enjoy Papa's article on Wilson hugely, and relish 
the Tribunes which he often sends me; it really 
keeps me a bit in touch with America, even at three 
weeks old. I'm much pleased and interested to see 
T. R. being pushed by events to the front. 

January 7. 

My, this seems an empty, selfish letter. However, 
I suppose you wanted to know what I was doing. 

Oh, by the way, would you pick out one of the best 
of those souvenirs or trinkets and send it to Bishop as 
a kind of Xmas or Easter present. Whatever you 
think the most interesting, except, of course, the 
German bomb which belongs to Papa. 

Your loving 
Victor. 



Hotel Crillon, Paris, 
January 18, 1916. 
Dear Alee: Well, I got my brevet a week or ten days 
ago. Most unfavorable weather conditions, but still 
I was the first to be brevte in January. Since coming 
here I have rushed about and seen half a dozen 
varieties of people. From Duffours and Bianchi, 
through Kisling, the St. Maurices, right up to M. 
Boutroux and M. Breteuil. Finally on Saturday, I 
met Cowdin and Prince who had just arrived. I 
lunched with them on Sunday in Company with 
some big guns in French and American aviation, and 
then returned to Avord only to get my marching 
orders to the R. G. A. Yesterday the Princes took 



i6 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

me to lunch with the Commandant Belaut who is in 
charge of all the new machines that are supplied to 
the Army. After lunch we went out to Issy le 
Moulineau where the new model improvements and 
readjustments are tried out. They surpass the 
imagination. There were three or four models of 
great size for a competition, each about 28 metres 
from tip to tip with three huge motors; one could 
carry enough gasolene to go to Berlin and back. 
Also a little humming-bird car, which climbs to 
3500 metres in the incredible time of 14 minutes! It 
looks as though we can put the Am. Aviation through 
this deal. All those who were indifferent are now 
more sympathetic. Besnard appointed a Lieutenant 
in his office to look out for our interests. 

Hotel Crillon, Paris, 
January 21, 1916. 

Dear Alee: Up and down, back and forth. Yester- 
day we understood the American Escadrille was 
formed and we were to be united today. We plugged 
about at Bourget and found the Capitaine du Re- 
serve General deviation, who said he knew nothing of 
it and sent us off to our respective groups, — Thaw to 
Caudron, Cowdin to Nieuport, Prince to Voisin, and 
myself to Maurice. That means Prince and I have 
to go to some God-forsaken village near Senlis and 
wait till the order comes through — if it does — , and 
the ministry does not fall as it did last autumn when 
all had been arranged. 

Now I just drop in on Jaccaci and meet a young 
Aviation Lieutenant, who is on Maurice and invites 
me to go on his Escadrille in three or four days time 
when he is back at the Front. "We need pilots," he 
says, "and I'd rather take you than people I've never 
heard of. Don't you want to come?" Don't I? 
Have a machine to myself, fly all I want! But I can- 



AVIATION 165 

not throw the American business over-board at this 
time. 

I am dining with Cowdin, Prince, and the rest. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

February 15, 1916. 
Dear Alee: ... I am mildly bored as usual out 
here for I have not flown or rolled on a machine for 
over two weeks. The weather is one round of rain 
and wind. On the two or three fine days the Moranes 
were smashed up. However, I talk and think flying 
so much with Norman Prince that I feel I am learn- 
ing just the same. I am really expert in the pilotage 
of the Nieuport. 

I hear young William James, the artist, is in 
town, — will try to see him. Love to Papa. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Division Nieuport, 
February 20, 1916. 
Dear Chanler: After waiting about some three 
weeks now I have at last got a whack at the ma- 
chines. I was not sure I could get away with it, 
having never been in a parasol before; but it went 
splendidly and I landed well. The next fellow, as I 
remember, broke it up, so I was put on Nieuport, 
and, knowing that all the risk that I ran was a 
capotage in landing or leaving, I pulled on the motor 
full force and sailed away. It is a beautifully bal- 
anced machine and responds in a twinkling to the 
commands. Besides one has a great feeling of 
security and strength in its robust form and power- 
ful motor. My! it is heavy for its size. To land well 
one must let it fall from about a yard and a half, 
taking care that the tail is well down at the time. 



i66 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

This afternoon (the second time I have flown it, my 
progress being greatly impeded by numerous cabo- 
tages on the part of my class-mates) — I tried some 
banked curves (virages a la vertical). Of course I had 
understood beforehand how it was done, yet the 
experience was a novel and almost uncomfortable 
sensation because I am not accustomed to it. I 
never did much of this while learning on the M. F., 
because it is such a big 'bus that 45 seems an awful 
lot; but, on the Nieuport, if you don't bank on the 
sharp curves it's so small it slides outward and the 
side wind is most unpleasant. The tail flippers of 
this fish has, like any other aeroplane, a rudder for 
direction, and a movable plane for depth. But of 
course if it is turned over side-wise it is the rudder 
which serves as depth and the plan de profondeur 
as direction. The first time, I put my hand over for 
direction, and then, as it keeled round, pulled on the 
manche a ballage. Ordinarily this would make the 
boat go up, but here, you see, it pulled the nose in- 
ward. It came over so fast that I wanted to climb 
on to the upper side of the fuselage. So I straightened 
out and righted. Not having reduced the motor — 
good precaution to diminish disagreeable sensa- 
tions — I had the feel of the air working hard on the 
upper wing surfaces by the increased speed. I 
piqued a little to straighten out. It's just the sucking 
tension, or resistance, a sail that has fallen overboard 
gives, and one takes it in with headway. The landing 
does not seem to me to be as hard as I was led to 
believe. I don't say I won't capoter: everyone does 
some time or other. Even the Captain took out the 
new Hispano today and made a summersault before 
leaving the ground, — wheels stuck in the ground. 
Wheel but there is mud out here. Imagine a level 
ground a mile and a half long by a mile broad, some 
of it planted in winter wheat, but some merely 



AVIATION 167 

ploughed and harrowed. With the rain, or the occa- 
sional inch of snow, it becomes a wonderful, cold, 
sticky consistency. Even the two or three little dogs 
who stand about with the pilotes can be seen holding 
one little paw up after another to warm it. 

On windless days the penguin or trots pattes wanders 
about. It is a Morane with a three cylinder engine. 
Everybody takes an interest in it for the amuse- 
ment it affords. Never yet have I heard of a 
man who did not, on his first start, make half-a- 
dozen chevaux de bois, like a kitten chasing its tail. 
Yesterday, or was it the day before? — a fellow 
started out famously, tail up straight as a dart; when 
he wavered and made a whirlwind of circles. Slow- 
ing the engine, he stopped, and made a fresh start. 
This time he was so violent that the machine ended 
up with its nose in the ground and its tail pointed 
heavenwards. The whole personnel had gathered, for 
everyone knew beforehand that this would end that 
very frisky behavior, while the poor fellow climbed 
down from his uncomfortable position in the fuselage. 
The number of machines in active service in this 
school has been greatly reduced. One day ten were 
broken and there never are less than three capotages 
a day. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Division Nieuport, Feb. 21, 1916. 

Dear Alee: At last I am in a better frame of mind 
and can write you a more exhaustive letter on our 
situation. For the last two-and-a-half weeks I have 
been out here (ij^ hours from Paris) waiting to fly, 
and^ incidentally following, or rather taking, a strong 
advisory part in the preparation for our future wel- 
fare. 

Well, finally Sunday morning it was fine and not 



168 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

windy. By saying strongly enough, "Why, of course 
I can fly the parasol!" (a Morane monoplane with 
the plane over-head) I was given permission to climb 
in: the other pupils in my class had broken it on the 
previous occasion. The mecano whirled the helice 
and I sped down the field. It was glorious! I had 
not flown for nearly a month. But the excess of 
power, I was not accustomed to: I did not feel that 
I had the machine in hand. However, I made three 
or four virages. It responds delightfully, easily, and 
reducing the motor I came towards the field. "It 
seems a shame to smash up such an elegant bird," I 
thought, for the landing is the crucial moment. 
But — je me suis bien debrouille, — and came down like 
a feather. I had a passenger-ride on Nieuport, and 
yesterday afternoon took a turn on the large variety 
called le 23 metre, meaning it has 23 square metres 
of surface portant. One certainly gets plenty of wind 
in it, especially on the turns, if the motor is not re- 
duced; and it responds so quickly and easily that I 
pushed the stick about with my little finger. After 
the Farman, it's like sailing a swift little race-boat 
when one has been used to something on the order of 
the "Wild Duck." In a moment I was at 100 metres 
and nearly lost the field. I turned, circled and 
finally landed in the far end of the field. With a 
bounce, to be sure; but that's a detail, for I was 
immensely satisfied. "Who in the deuce has been 
putting into my head that the Nieuport is so difficult, 
so dangerous?" I thought, "it's just like any other 
machine as long as you're careful — only better." 
And yet it's called the casse gueule. People are not 
careful, however. This morning I did not go out, 
for my zingue was smashed, and this afternoon it's 
rain, snow and wind. But to return to the other 
end of the matter, there are six of us ready to go to 
the front now, including myself. Barres has promised 



AVIATION 169 

to give us all the Bebe Nieuports (we do not buy any- 
thing) and we shall be an Escadrille de chasse. N. B. 
Up to now there have been no Escadrille of Bebes, 
these being generally only given to old pilotes. Now 
we must have a French Captain. But first, as to the 
people who are running this. They are, of course, 
the three you know, — Thaw, Cowdin and Prince. 
Thaw, though the youngest, has perhaps more 
weight, being a jowj-Lieutenant. Thaw wants his 
old chief at his Caudron Escadrille, Capitaine 
Thenault, a charming fellow, but young. Balsan, 
after being asked to look into the matter, gave some 
uncertain answer. Thaw wants him if it's physically 
possible. Meanwhile we wait, and if nothing is done, 
we greatly fear that Thenault may be definitely 
refused us and some "service" Capitaine be dumped 
upon us to make our life unpleasant. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Plessis, March 23, 1916. 

Dear Papa: I was over-joyed to get your letters. 
They came all in a bunch. On the strength of what 
you said about M. Chevrillon I went out and lunched 
with him yesterday, — a very charming family affair. 
He showed me some of his works of art, especially 
the Chinese and Japanese paintings and little ob- 
jects. He has such a sympathy for them that he 
made me swell with enthusiasm. Delicious little 
carved toad buttons. They quite took the edge off 
his two or three French eighteenth century masters 
in the " gute stube." He sends his kindest regards and 
pointed out to me with pride that he had two or three 
of your books in the Holy of Holies, — a little book- 
shelf beside his bed. 

. . . Here at Plessis I have been flying the "baby." 
(Alee wanted to know what I meant.) The Nieuport 



170 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

machines are all much smaller and faster than the 
Farmans and Voisins, etc. The Bebe is the smallest 
and latest model. It is a monoplane and is said to 
be the fastest in the French Army. It is a most 
delightful machine and responds so quickly and pre- 
cisely. Can you figure moving at will in three 
dimensions? Well, Monday I went out for the fifth 
time on it, and climbing to iooo metres I looped the 
loop a couple of times. Now for a really good 
atterrissage, I thought, as I approached the ground, 
and began gauging my distance. I got over the spot 
just right and all would have been well but I was care- 
less with the "mamette des gaz" and the shock of the 
landing started the motor, so I bounced off and bent 
a wing before stopping it. I never felt a sicker man 
than when I trudged over to the waiting group. 
"A clear case of over-confidence," they said, and 
cursed me for breaking it. For it will take a couple 
of days to repair. Don't let this be an occasion for 
you and Alee to write me: "Please be careful." It's 
the first bad smash I've made and I have six months 
pilotage now. Also the far-famed looping is much 
easier than for a street boy to make a hand-spring. 
Nothing to it. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Luxeuil les Bains, 
April 20, 1916. 
Dear Alee: Off at last! I got a batch of very cheery 
home letters from you, Papa, and Grandmamma 
which I read on the train going out Monday night, 
after a kind of wind-up dinner of Americans. We 
travelled all night in a ravitaillement train, and arrived 
finally at a little hillside village, with a glimpse of 
Reims cathedral amid the rolling Champagne slopes. 
There we found some one had made a mistake, so 



AVIATION 171 

we were directed to Luxeuil. We passed through a 
suburb of Reims by auto and spent the night at 
Epernay. Plenty of inhabitants and children playing 
in the streets at Reims, only the roads have cloth 
screens running for miles on their northern sides, so 
that the Germans may not see the traffic. The 
country everywhere is beautiful, at this season espe- 
cially. All the next day by train we followed the 
Marne till it became a creek no bigger than the 
Motherkill, and without missing trains at the 
changes — most lucky — reached Lure, where we met 
the Captain. I should have said we — means Nor- 
man, Rockwell, McConnell and myself. Thaw and 
Cowdin are coming later. The Captain took us to the 
field, a fine one with numerous huge hangars and 
cabins in construction — more like grain elevators or 
shipping docks than anything I have yet seen. There 
we were introduced to Captain Happe. The latter 
is a by-word in aviation, and incredible are the stories 
told about him and his bombardement escadrilles. 
In the twilight of his shack, scenting of new cut 
spruce, he welcomed us all, and standing before the 
window, delivered an impromptu lecture on the 
advantages of accompanying bombardment ma- 
chines. "I know escadrille de chasse do not like to 
accompany us; but it is my belief that they would 
find more game if they did. Now if you had been 
with us on my last trip I should not have this sorry 
task," and he waved his hand to the table where lay 
a neat pile of yellow envelopes looking like boxes of 
wedding cake. "Croix de guerre and letters to the 
relatives of the eight fellows killed on my last raid." 
I thought his eye glittered as he related the satisfac- 
tion of his last victim. I believe he prides himself on 
having lost as many pilotes as any other two Captains 
in France. Anyway we have no fear, for he has been 
forbidden to cross the line except by night, until he is 



172 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

given new and faster machines, by which time we 
shall be called elsewhere. Near our cabin-bureau we 
found the autos of our escadrille which gave us a 
tangible idea of the realization of our hopes. Motor 
busses and trucks with gray bodies and brass head 
lights were lined along the field. I think there were 
twenty, counting two voitures legeres. 

We are finely situated in this ville-cTeaux — eat at 
the best hotel in town with our officers, live in a 
"villa" on the hill with an ordnance to clean up, and 
bathe and drink hot waters. Meanwhile we wait 
for the Avions to be shipped. I would you were here 
to enjoy the countryside, the blossoming fruit trees, 
and the distant snow-capped hills. The town is old 
and picturesque — Maison du Cardinal Jouffroy — 
Maison de Franqois /, etc. And this morning I saw 
a stork circling round and round. In a couple of 
days we shall have an order to circulate in the autos 
and a baby or two to practice. What an ideal chance 
for sight-seeing in the neighborhood, if only soldiers 
took an interest in history and architecture. But 
they don't. McConnell says he finds the war quite a 
fashionable pastime. He winters at Pau, stops off a 
week or two at Paris, and now, just as the season 
begins, goes to the summer resort. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Luxeuil, April 30, 1916. 
Dear Papa: I have just received two splendid 
letters from you, — one about Chanler and the other 
about the war and its prospects. As to the latter, one 
is inclined to think that five years more is stretching 
it, because of the scarcity of materials and eatables. 
Here, as usual, I spend a care-free idle life, hoping 
and wishing and worrying about that which does not 
arrive. In this case, the aeroplanes. We have, how- 



AVIATION 173 

ever, made two beautiful trips in the Vosges. On the 
first it was still raining, so we were not able to get the 
full benefit of the scenery. At Belfort we nearly had 
a calamity for it was discovered that the Captain's 
playful wolf dog had chewed up the official red paper 
pass which allowed us to circulate. It was, however, 
patched together and glued on celluloid; so we con- 
tinued, passed the " de Belfort," stopping at 
the various aviation fields, and continued into the 
reconquered Alsace. German names on the sign 
posts and in the walls; but bunches of French troops 
and little placards "cave 30 hommes" "cave 50 hom- 
ines" " \me Escadron" etc. The main road here was 
barred by day being in sight of the enemy. (I should 
also say at every village were toll gates with sen- 
tinels who took our number, etc.) we therefore made 
a detour into the foothills, — mighty precipitous they 
were — and descended into Thann. All the eastern 
side of the Vosges seems to drop "a picque" into the 
Rhine basin, while on this side they rise very gently. 
We wound among vineyards and broom and were 
only bored because the pretty views of valleys with 
blossoming cherry trees and the distant Harts forest 
were perpetually cut off by artificial screens (to hide 
us from the Germans). I should have liked to stop 
and wander in Thann but the Captain wanted to get 
home. It is such a picturesque town full of chasseur s- 
d-pieds, cyclists, etc., besides the inhabitants, speak- 
ing the German patois. The signs written in Ger- 
man, crossed out or patched up into French. Lots of 
women and children despite the marked signs of 
bombardment in the main street. We climbed slowly 
up the valley, and passed into two or three small vil- 
lages, noting little green patches of flat land. 

The little railways soon stopped, and we met 
camions and horse teams toiling up the curved road, 
now hedged in by a tall spruce forest. There is even 



174 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

an air line (buckets swinging on cables) over the 
mountain to facilitate the ravitaillement. Passing 
through a tunnel — the ancient boundary — we came 
out to the French water-shed and the source of the 
Moselle. Little white houses squatting on the slopes, 
with hillocks rising behind. It was very striking 
how unlike the two sides were. The eastern with its 
jagged summits and ridges standing out in bare 
brown rock, and the western with its rounded off and 
entirely wooded slopes. We had thought of return- 
ing by the Ballon d 'Alsace; but the snow, of which we 
now saw patches, deterred us. Rolling gently down 
from one valley to another we soon reached broader 
meadows again, with cherry trees to Luxeuil. 

Yesterday we went to attend the funeral of a 
pilote. We went to Gerardmer and thence on to 
lunch with an escadrille in a nearby town. It was an 
even more delightful trip, principally perhaps be- 
cause it was a very fine day and we had no top on the 
motor to spoil the view. First the low lands and 
foothills, with the white fruit trees and buttercups 
everywhere; then the narrow valleys with little 
streams, gray trees budding on new leaves, and 
finally Gerardmer Lake with fir covered hills coming 
down to the water's edge. Lots of swagger aviation 
officers with glittering decorations, and a fiery young 
Alpine Lieutenant who marshalled his demi-section 
of sallow youths about the bier. It was a short, 
impressive ceremony in the little grave-yard on a 
side hill, and once over, we continued to the nearby 
flying corps. We lunched — messed, I suppose I 
should say — with the officers there, and scrumptious 
food we had, the proprietor of one of the best- 
known restaurants at Geneva being the cook, we 
were told. Cigarettes, liqueurs, a view of the 
champs — very small — and the latest model Farman, 
which had fresh bullet holes from the morning's 



AVIATION 175 

encounter. And we returned. We took another 
route, leading through the Val-d'Ajol, very noted, I 
believe, for its gorge-like sides. Little yellow jonquils 
and some blue flowers covering every grassy slope. 

April 30. 

As though to aggravate our chagrin at not having 
the 'planes, the Boche came all the way over and 
dropped bombs on our field. It is 65 kilometres back, 
so with half a chance we could catch him before he 
returned. The first day he killed one of our auto 
drivers, but since then he has done no damage, 
though he dropped incendiary bombs on the hospitals 
this morning. Our little 75 blazes away at him at 
dawn when he comes, and we hang out of the win- 
dows of our villa on the hill, and discuss his ap- 
proximate height. There was a big funeral, of course, 
for the poor poilu, which lasted hours in church, and 
all of Luxeuil turned out. "It must have cost a lot 
to- have such a mass," the lady of the cafe told us 
afterwards. "The state and the service de sante 
bear the expense." 

By the way, please get those photos I took of 
Farnsworth and Sokona and send them to Mrs. Al- 
fred Loomis, Tuxedo Park. 

I often wonder what this game of mine is leading 
to. Nothing but a dyed-in-the-wool ne'er do weel, 
I suspect. All war is a tumbling down of the estab- 
lished order. Yes, I have a paint box; but somehow 
I was awfully diffident and finicky the last time I 
tried. 

Love to all. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Luxeuil, May 10, 1916. 
Dear Alee: I have just received a delayed lot of 
splendid letters from home. The Great Robbery 



i 7 6 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

among others. It seems as though we came in for all 
the glory without a great loss. It substantiates 
splendidly your theory about not having real silver 
about. Rockwell foamed at the mouth when I read 
him what Papa said on the Morlae subject. "That's 
just the point, he did not write a word of the article. 

The can't even talk English correctly, let alone 

write it! The story is a most inaccurate jumble of 
what happened the winter of 1914 at ." 

It appears I gave him too much credit, he has not 
even the croix de guerre. 

Well, the Avions have arrived: the first batch 
came by train the latter part of last week, and the 
second, among which was mine, on Sunday night. 
All yesterday was taken up in mounting and adjust- 
ing. This morning I took my maiden voyage. 
Amazing little things (you would call them big 
perhaps, because one takes up more room than a 
couple of limousines; but, as compared to an average 
aeroplane, which needs a circus tent for shelter, they 
are small) and so neat and clean-limbed, the eight of 
them do not half fill up one shed. Most of them 
have war paint on, — rather handsome, savage with- 
out being garish. It is mottled light and dark brown 
with light and dark green imitation of landscape, 
the same type that they paint camions, tents, can- 
nons, etc. Mine, however, happens to be a cream- 
color solid, something new they are trying out; but 
it gets dirty and needs to be washed daily. The tools 
for the mechanics have arrived, so we are all right 
except for spare parts, of which we have plenty to 
be sure, but none fit, as they are for the old model 
Nieuport. It seemed almost odd to be in air again: 
in fact I made two rather poor landings, and in re- 
dressing from a steep virage it responded too quickly, 
like a tender-mouthed horse, and backed all over the 
place. The Vosges look much finer from a little 



AVIATION 177 

height, say twelve hundred metres, than from the 
ground. I got my motor throttled down so that it 
would almost take care of itself, and then pulled out 
my camera and snapped them. It may be blurred; 
if not I'll send it to you. I have yet to get my In- 
struments de bord properly fitted out. It's quite a 
job. The cockpit is so small that unless one takes 
great care they take up all the room and hide the 
gasolene gauge, etc. Also the machine-gun must go 
on the upper plane, and that must be regulated so 
that I can aim and also reload without inconvenience. 
Two or three days ought to see me ready. There 
are lots of skylarks on the field, so on account of the 
way they climb in air I propose to call my baby 
Palouette. 

Of course, since our machines have come, nary a 
Boche. Occasionally one is signalle, but not located. 
This evening one was seen over Lure. They even 
blew the pompier horns here. It turned out to be only 
Kiffin Rockwell at a higher altitude than usual. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

Luxeuil, May 14, 1916. 
Dear Alee: You must have a queer conception of 
an aeroplane, if you think I am going to cook those 
beef tablets on board, or run the likelihood of landing 
in such a desolate spot that I must camp out for the 
night! For Mexican reconnaissance that would do, 
but not here. Even in the upland country here- 
abouts I am ever in sight of thirty villages at a fair 
height, say 2000 metres, and over more populated 
districts, at 3000, 1 could probably count sixty. Well, 
the machines are all here and tried: I made my first 
two trips over the enemy yesterday and the day be- 
fore. Cowdin and Prince returned from Paris with a 
press reporter, and a cinema yesterday. Well, we 



178 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

pulled it off this morning despite the rain and low 
clouds. I never was so be-photo'd or ever hope to be 
again. In large groups and small ones; singly, 
talking, and silent; in the air, and on the ground, by 
"movies" and in poses. The United Press reporter 
was fine, beaming all over with the thrills of it. 
"Hated to sink his individuality but had to promise 
to give it to all the papers to get the job." "First 
time he'd been to the Front" (Front! sixty-five 
kilometres to leeward of it), "or been on an aviation 
ground with so many machines" (Many! thirty!), 
and he smiled with his gold teeth and spectacles, like 
the matron of a boarding-house. The first part was 
the most difficult, and everybody had some sugges- 
tion to make, more brilliant than the last. And 
nobody agreed with the movie man, who planted 
himself firmly in the middle of the field, 500 yards 
off, and waited for the cage-d-poules to come on. Of 
course we ran in the M. F.'s, — a simulacre bombard- 
ment, don't you see. Pleased Captain Happe 
immensely, we to accompany and to protect the 
big machine! First, the Farmans lined up, roared 
and buzzed, and by ones and twos flitted past the 
camera man up into the air. Then one at a time we 
bumped out and rushed by him. I must say that he 
had nerve for we decolle'd just before him, and, after a 
turn of the field, we each dived just over him, then 
came round and landed. You will see it all, I expect, 
sometime this summer; for it is to be given to some 
American cinema company in Paris, I understand. 
Kiffin and Berty Hall were much peeved to think 

that some person was going to make heaps of 

money out of us, and we'd risked our necks for noth- 
ing. (None of us liked to manoeuvre so close to- 
gether with the plafond at 300 metres). "Think of 
the honor," said I. "Oh no, give me the cash and 
keep it," said Bert. 



AVIATION 179 

We had a most gorgeous lunch for our guests to- 
day, — the good woman outdid herself. Eight or 
ten courses, it seemed, and we served up some good 
wine — Rudesheimer and Pommard. It's wonderful 
what a cellar she has; even M. de Sillac commented 
on it, and the Captain from Etat-major I had for- 
gotten to mention. As for Mr. Wader, he took it all 
in. I know he'll write up a most enraptured account 
of us. Then we hustled them all off in an auto for 
the train, including Prince, who is still to get his 
machine at Bourget. Weather is still over-cast. 
Perhaps we shall make another trip across the lines. 
In any case I have learned more about flying in the 
last five days than in the five preceding months, 
such it is to have one's own machine. But I am far 
from being a pilote yet. Of course I am delighted to 
have the meat tablets, and shall use them all the 
same. Yesterday I flew over the Valley where we 
were camped last August — tiny it looked. The chief 
regret I have is that I cannot seem to get my old 
Corporal Bianchi out as my mechanic. 

Your loving 
Victor. 



Verdun, Esc. N. 129. S. P. 24, 

May 23. 

Dear Cousin Helen: Many, many thanks for the 
books. All but one of them are new to me and I 
shall enjoy re-reading the "Ordeal by Battle." 

We are really settling down to work, and I begin 
to feel I am actively saving France and no longer 
toying with her expensive utensils. 

I got in 27 hours flying over the Boche lines, the 
week before leaving, but had no luck in running on a 
Boche. Two of my companions, however, finished 
off two Germans. 



180 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Now we are at shucks! I forgot the censor. 

Anyway, I think I may say, morning and evening, 
when the weather permits we fly high and low over 
that smouldering inferno which has been raging since 

February. Yesterday morning from St. M to the 

Argonne and back again well inside their lines, over 
2j^ miles high (4,300 metres): yesterday afternoon 
low, to protect a slow machine from Douaumont to 
Cote 304; back and forth for an hour and a half. 

The landscape — one wasted surface of brown 
powdered earth, where hills, valleys, forest and vil- 
lages all merged in phantoms — was boiling with puffs 
of dark smoke. Even above my engine's roar I could 
catch reports now and then. 

To the rear, on either side, tiny sparks like flashes 
of a mirror, hither and yon, in the woods and dales, 
denoted the heavy guns which were raising such dust. 

One of my fellows who was flying high to protect 
us, fell upon a Boche and brought him down. 

I think it must be my turn soon. Even from above, 
one had the sense of great activity and force in the 
country to the rear. From every wood and hedge 
peeped out "pares" of autos, wagons, tents and 
shelters, — while all the roadsides showed white and 
dusty with the ceaseless travel. 

I have since heard we retook the fort of Douau- 
mont but lost "Homme Mort" while I was flying 
overhead; smoke completely hid the infantry, I sup- 
pose, besides I was busy keeping beside the reglage 
machine. 

Your affectionate, 
Victor. 

June 1st, 1916. 
Dear Papa: This flying is much too romantic to be 
real modern war with all its horrors. There is some- 
thing so unreal and fairy like about it, which ought 



AVIATION 181 

to be told and described by Poets, as Jason's Voyage 
was, or that Greek chap who wandered about the 
Gulf of Corinth and had giants try to put him in beds 
that were too small for him, etc. 

Yesterday afternoon it was bright but full of those 
very thick fuzzy clouds like imaginary froth of gods 
or genii. We all went out. All but I and the Captain 
got lost and turned back, so we two flitted about over 
mountains of fleecy snow full of shadow and mist. 
He reminded me of the story of the last fly on a polar 
expedition as I followed his black silhouette. I went 
down to a field near the front and flew again at five 
o'clock. Then it was marvelous. At 3000 metres 
one floated secure on a purple sea of mist. Up 
through it, here and there, voluminous clouds re- 
sembling those thick water plants that grow in 
ponds;, and far over this ocean, other white rounded 
ones just protruding, like strands on some distant 
mainland. Deep below me I could just distinguish 
enough of the land now and again to know my 
whereabouts, — the winding Meuse in its green flood 
banks or that smouldering Etna, Douaumont. But 
off" to the north, hovering and curveting over one 
of the bleached coral strands like seagulls — not 
Nieuports surely! They were the modern harpies: 
the German machines for the chase. In the still 
gray mist below now and again I caught sight of a 
Farman or Caudron sweeping over the corner of the 
lines to see some battery fire. But as I peered down, 
a livid white object moved under me going south, 
with the tail of a skate. "There is my fish and 
prey," I thought as I pointed down after the German 
reglage machine, "but prudence first." So I searched 
in the water-plant clouds. Yes, sure enough the 
venomous creatures are there, as dark specks re- 
sembling the larvae one sees in brackish water, — three 
of them moving the same way. Those are the 



i82 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

Fokkers. I did not want to have them fall on my 
neck when I dived on the fat greasy Boche! 

This morning we all started off at three, and, not 
having made concise enough arrangements, got 
separated in the morning mist. I found Prince, 
however, and we went to Douaumont where we 
found two German reglage machines unprotected and 
fell upon them. A skirmish, a spitting of guns, and 
we drew away. It had been badly executed that 
manoeuvre! But ho! another Boche heading for 
Verdun! Taking the direction stick between my 
knees I tussled and fought with the mitrailleuse and 
finally charged the rouleau, all the while eyeing my 
Boche and moving across Vaux towards Etain. I 
had no altitude with which to overtake him, but a 
little more speed. So I got behind his tail and spit 
till he dived into his own territory. Having lost 
Norman, I made a tour to the Argonne and on the 
way back saw another fat Boche. "No protection 
machine in sight." I swooped, swerved to the right, 
to the left, almost lost, but then came up under his 
lee keel by the stern. (It's the one position they 
cannot shoot from.) I seemed a dory alongside a 
schooner. I pulled up my nose to let him have it. 
Crr — Crr — Crr — a cartridge jammed in the barrel. 
He jumped like a frog and fled down to his grounds. 
Later in the morning I made another stroll along the 
lines. Met a flock of Nieuports, and saw across the 
way a squad of white-winged L. V. G. How like a 
game of prisoner's base it all is! I scurry out in 
company, and they run away. They come into my 
territory and I being alone, take to my heels. They 
did come after me once too! Faster they are than I, 
but I had height so they could but leer up at me with 
their dead-white wings and black crosses like sharks, 
and they returned to their own domain. 

This afternoon we left together, it being our turn 



AVIATION 183 

for the lines at 12:30. The rolly-poly cotton wool 
clouds were thick again. Popping in and out of 
them, I ran upon some blue puffs such as one sees 
when the artillery has been shooting at aeroplanes. 
"Strange phenomena, perhaps there exist blue puffs 
like that." Yesterday I had fruitlessly chased about 
such puffs to find the Avions. More smoke balls! 
There above me, like a black beetle, was the Boche! 
But well above me, and heading for his lines. For 
twenty minutes I followed that plane ever in front 
of me, and inch by inch, almost imperceptibly I 
gained in height and distance. He veered off to 
give me a broadside; I ducked away behind his 
tail; he turned off again; I repeated, but I did not 
have enough extra speed to manoeuvre close to him, 
though I temporarily cut off his retreat. After three 
passages-at-arms he got away. Then like a jack-ass 
I went on to Verdun and found no one. On my re- 
turn what tales were told! The Boches had come 
over Bar-le-Duc and plentifully shelled it; two of our 
pilots had their reservoirs pierced and one had not 
returned. The town, the station, the aviation field 
all shelled — 40 killed, including ten school children. 
(And we had word this morning that Poincare has 
formally forbidden bombardment of every descrip- 
tion, even on arm factories — it might kill civilians.) 
Yes, this is what comes of getting notoriety. There 
were disgusting notices about us in the papers two 
days ago, — even yesterday. I am ashamed to be 
seen in town today if our presence here has again 
caused death and destruction to innocent people. 
It would seem so. That Boche at Luxeuil, by the 
way, came again after we left, on the day and at the 
hour when the funeral services were being held. 
But through telephone they got out a Nieuport 
escadrille and cut off his retreat, bringing him down 
on the French trenches. By the papers on him he 



i8 4 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

was identified as a one-time waiter in the Lion Vert 
now, of course, a German officer. 

June 2. 
It was a bit of self-importance to say the Boche 
came here for us. General Petain's General Staff 
had just moved here, and besides, Amiens, Chalons, 
Epernay were all bombarded. It is a shame some 
of us did not get one of the hogs fair and square on our 
ground. Norman Prince says he possessed one, but, 
in charging rolls, cut the contact with his elbow and 
came down, thinking he had a panne. McConnell, 
who was lost (he only arrived for lunch an hour before 
and had never seen a Boche), had a good set-to, but 
he finally got away. So he wandered south, way off 
his map, and finally came down on a deceptive field 
which smashed him up. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 5, 1916. 
Dear Alee: From now on you must not believe too 
much of what the papers say, we made the mistake of 

letting do a little publicity, and he has very bad 

taste. The reporters in town see their chance for 
news; and they will soon have us bringing down a 
German a day apiece, and dying gloriously weekly. 
I am reported killed twice already, and more than 
one of us is severely wounded several times. Nothing 
much has happened, intermittent rainy weather. 
Oliver Wolcott, Carlton Burr, and a couple of other 
Harvard men whom I knew in college are with the 
Ambulance here. They all behaved very well and 
picked up the dead and wounded off the streets at 
the time of the raid. We had another alerte yester- 
day; but the Boches did not come here. Hall sur- 
prised one further north and thinks he got him; but 



AVIATION 185 

the German plane fell through the clouds, and Hall 
could not see if he hit the earth or not. I ran a-foul 
of two with Prince yesterday morning, but we did 
not have unity or concentration of attack enough to 
get them. I enclose a few awful photos which may 
interest you. I am most proud and interested in 
having both Conrad and Chanler going to Military 
Camps. I am sure it will do them a world of good, 
especially since they are both so anxious to go. 
I don't think "Pitty Con" will be physically injured: 
remember Alan Seeger was an appalling wreck before 
the war. 

Everyone says they get tired of flying, "It's 
monotonous." I don't see it, but on the contrary, 
an infinite variety is this, when there is a slight 
sprinkling of clouds. Clouds are not thin pieces of 
blotting paper; but liquid, ceaselessly changing 
steam. I played hide-and-seek in and out them 
yesterday; sometimes flat blankets like melting snow 
on either side below me, or again, like great ice floes 
with distant bergs looming up, and "open water" 
near at hand, blue as a moonstone cloud, floating 
full, for all the world like a gigantic jelly-fish (those 
that have red trailers and a sting). In the nearer 
pools the mottled earth, pie-bald with sun and 
shadow, showed through; and it was thanks to these 
I knew my whereabouts. I was going from below 
the clouds to above them, circling in some hole; 
thus I realized the size and thickness of the walls, — 
300 metres sheer from top to base of dazzling white- 
ness. Some have many feathery, filmy points and 
angles, others are rounded and voluminous, with 
cracks and caverns in them. These are all the fair- 
weather, fleecy clouds; for there are the lower, 
flatter, misty ones, and the speckled, or mare's tail 
clouds, above which one never reaches. There are 
such a lot of trumpet-shaped and wind blown clouds 



1 86 LETTERS OF VICTOR CHAPMAN 

this evening that I should like to go out and examine 
them; but it's a bore for my mechanic, and I doubt if 
I could go high enough to warrant crossing the lines. 

Your loving 
Victor. 



[Victor was quite aware that he was going to be 
killed, and three days before his death he said in an 
off-hand way to his Uncle Willy, " Of course I shall 
never come out of this alive." When writing to his 
parents, however, he seems to have thought he could 
convince them that the life he was leading contained 
no element of danger. Editor.] 

June 6, 1916. 

Dear Alee: Why so fearful? Please don't worry 
so — and never for one instant believe what you see 
in the papers. What you saw and heard about me on 
the 17th of May never happened at all ! On May 14th, 
as I told you a reporter and a cinema came out. Of 
course the fool reporter had to write up a "story" of 
what he saw, — I saw it in the Paris Herald. It was all 
rot and rotten from beginning to end. "Weary 
hours waiting for the return from the bombardment," 
etc. We were in the air just twenty minutes and 
never out of sight that day. I suppose to make it 
realistic he had to pick out one who did not return 
on time to increase the suspense; and he happened 
to take me. I can imagine how this lie when re- 
garnished and served up afresh might look awful. 
All you need do in the future is to serenely ignore it 
as fiction stuffing for hungry newspaper columns. 

As I said in the last letters, we are not giving out 
any more news even to reporters who worm their 
way here. It's disgusting; for we are novices, and it 
bores the old French pilotes. Besides we missed our 



AVIATION 187 

chance when the Boches came over Bar. Mr. Charles 
Prince came out and dined with us last night. 

Your loving 
Victor. 

June 14, 1916. 

Dear Alee: As usual you and the papers know more 
than I about the business here. I have not done 
anything as yet to be rewarded or promoted for. I 
am not yet a Sergeant. To be sure I was proposed: 
every pilote is automatically proposed after twenty 
hours flight, just as everyone is made a Corporal 
when he is brevete. It seems an exceptional chance 
for getting into the public eye, though, I must say. 
It's too bad I'm not going into politics after the war 
so that I could make use of all this free advertising. 
I might almost run for the Assembly so as not to lose 
such a golden opportunity! Anyway, Conrad and 
Chanler are benefiting. I take it they will be 
pointed out at the Military Camps: "Hist! Dat guy 
has a brudder in the real War. He kills Chermans 
every mornin' like sparrers." Meanwhile I sit in an 
upper window with waves of leaden clouds drifting 
by, and the indefatigable graphophone churns out 
some vulgar tune below, and the other "heroes" 
play poker, and the Captain practices scales on the 
piano. It is disintegrating to mind and body, — this 
continued inertia. 

Your last letters don't mention politics. In the 
French papers, on the contrary, there are daily most 
exhaustive articles on the Republican convention: 
the ideals and connections of Roosevelt: the sym- 
pathies of Hughes: the betting and so forth. These 
items rival in space and head lines the Russian ad- 
vance and quite put in the shade the Italian resist- 
ance and ministerial crises. . . . Your loving 

Victor. 



VICTOR CHAPMAN 

It is not true he died in France; 

His spirit climbs the serried years 

Victorious over empty fears 
And proof of Freedom's last advance. 

The handful of his mortal clay 

May drift upon a foreign breeze 

To burgeon into flowers and trees 
That make the diadem of May. 

Himself still lives, and cannot die 

While freemen shun the tyrant's heel, 
While minds are true and hearts are leal, 

And men look upward to the sky. 

Compact of elemental fire 

And heart untouched by easy fear, 

His vision measures fair and clear 
The worth of ultimate desire. 

For him no blight of searing age; 

Eternal youth is his and joy — 

The cheerful gladness of the boy 
Shall be his constant heritage. 

Mourn not for that devoted head; 
He is the spirit of our race 
Triumphant over Time and Space — 

He cannot die; he is not dead. 

Benjamin Apthorp Gould 



ADDENDA 



ADDENDA 

DICTEE DU MECANO 

Louis Bley — 

Ce jour-la, le jour de sa mort, il y avait eu une 
sortie sur Verdun le matin. Chapman en etait, et est 
rentre a 9 heures, faisant un atterrissage un peu 
brutal qui eut pour resultat de couper un sandov. 
Mais voila qu'on nous signale des Boches venant sur 
Bar-le-Duc. J'etais en train de reparer le sandov, 
mais il me prend tous mes outils, les envoie promener 
en me disant, "Laissez cela tranquille, il faut que 
j'aille voir les Boches." Alors je lui dis qu'il ne 
pouvais pas partir avec le sandov coupe, et que je ne 
voulais pas le laisser partir car c'etait trop dangereux, 
il pouvait capoter ou avoir un accident a l'atterris- 
sage. Comme reponse, il dit: "Cela m'est egal de 
capoter," ce qui voulait dire, " Cela m'est egal ce qui 
m'arrive du moment que je descends un Boche." 
Mais il ne partit pas. Apres cela il alia dejeuner et 
comme il y allait avoir une sortie a midi et demi, je 
changeais ses bougies d'almmage, mettant des 
bougies Boches a la place des autres car il aimait bien 
mieux ces bougies-la. II est revenu a midi un quart 
et m'a demande si l'appareil etait pret, je lui reponds 
que oui et je lui dis, "Je vous ai mis des bougies 
Boches." II etait tres content et m'a dit qu'il allait 
les essayer. II me donna un assez gros paquet de 
journaux, avec des oranges et du chocolat me disant, 
"Je vais aller faire un tour sur les lignes et a mon 
retour j'atterrirai a Vatlincourt (derriere Verdun) et 
j'irai porter les oranges et le chocolat a ce pauvre 



194 ADDENDA 

Balsley a l'ambulance, car je crois qu'il n'y a plus 
beaucoup d'espoir de le sauver." Alors j'ai mis le 
paquet, les oranges et le chocolat en place pour qu'il 
puisse aller les porter a son camarade. II m'a serre 
la main et est parti en me disant, "Au revoir, je ne 
resterai pas longtemps." 

Deux jours avant on etait en train de regler sa 
mitrailleuse, mais voyant ses camarades partir, il 
court a son appareil, saute dedans et le voila parti 
sans prendre de combinaison, c'est-a-dire dans ses 
habits ordinaires, sur les lignes ennemies. 

A la derniere sortie sur Verdun qu'il a fait avec 
son appareil de 80 chevaux, il a ete blesse par une 
balle qui lui a effleure le cuir chevelu, un tout petit 
peu plus bas il pouvait etre tue. Dans cette sortie, 
une balle avait coupe les cisailles de gauchissement, 
une balle avait coupe le tendeur interieur d'une aile 
et traverse une roue, une balle explosive avait 
traverse la piece qui soutient le plan superieur, une 
balle explosive avait traverse le pare-brise et une 
balle avait effleure le plaquage du fuselage, et c'est 
cette derniere balle qui lui avait effleure le crane. II 
descendit a Vatlincourt se faire panser et revint a nos 
baraquements aux environs de Bar-le-Duc a trois 
heures et demie, et comme il y avait une sortie pour 
quatre heures sur Verdun, il voulait repartir en 
depit de sa blessure. Le capitaine Thenault le lui 
defendit et pour son courage il lui promit un ap- 
pareil de no chevaux. Chapman etait tres heureux. 
C'est a sa deuxieme sortie avec cet appareil qu'il a 
ete tue. 

Une fois a Luxeuil-les-Bains, il est rentre avec une 
balle explosive qui a passe sous le coeur du fuselage 
de l'appareil, est sortie sur le cote et a eclate sur le 
tendeur. Cette meme fois une balle lui est rentree 
dans la manche gauche et est ressortie de meme en 
frolant la chair et en le brulant legerement sur la 



ADDENDA 195 

peau. L'apres-midi de ce meme jour apres une 
autre sortie il est rentre avec une balle qui avait 
traverse le capot aluminium du moteur. 

Pour ne pas etre visible dans son nouvel appareil, 
son appareil de 80 chevaux etait un appareil tout 
blanc, tandis que l'appareil de no chevaux etait 
peint couleur verte comme de l'herbe, il s'etait 
amuse, deux jours avant sa mort, a gratter la peinture 
verte avec une piece de 10 centimes, pour que l'ap- 
pareil soit moins visible. Moi, son mecanicien, 
j'avais peint le fuselage en gris de ciel clair. La 
peinture n'etait pas seche le lendemain lorsque 
Chapman apprend que des Boches etaient sur Ver- 
dun et il part quand meme avec son appareil pas sec. 
Je n'etais pas content et je lui ai fait voir qu'il ferait 
mieux de rester, il n'a pas voulu et m'a dit: "Je me 
fous de la peinture. Si j'abats mon Boche, cela vau- 
dra bien une couche de peinture." 

Une fois, il piqua sur un Boche et l'approcha a 
quatre metres. II m'a dit que ses roues touchaient 
presque le plan superieur de l'avion Boche, et qu'il 
aurait pu le tirer a bout portant avec son browning 
qui ne le quittait jamais du reste quand il volait, mais 
il ne pouvait le sortir de son etui a cause de la manoeu- 
vre. 

Une autre fois il reste trois heures 20 sur les lignes 
allemandes et atterrit au hangar avec trois litres 
d'essence dans son reservoir seulement, chose tres 
dangereuse. 

II est reste une fois a voler dans une journee 7 
heures sur les lignes allemandes. II a fait 70 heures 
de vol sur son appareil de 80 chevaux sans jamais rien 
casser. C'etait un pilote merveilleux. Qu'il soit de 
garde ou non, des qu'on annoncait des avions Boches, 
il sautait dans son appareil et partait. II n'y en 
avait pas un comme lui. 

Pour les departs sur les lignes allemandes il etait 



196 ADDENDA 

toujours le premier parti et il etait le dernier rentre 
et volait toujours seul. Si un de ses camarades 
etait en danger il se precipitait a son secours. Mais 
lui ne se preoccupait jamais si il etait suivi ou soutenu. 
C'etait le plus courageux de tous. 

Une fois il rencontra 15 avions Boches et vola sur 
eux visant dans le tas. A l'atterrissage le capitaine 
Thenault le dispute mais cela lui etait egal. Sa 
reponse etait toujours: "Si je peux avoir un avion 
Boche!" 



CITATION FROM THE JOURNAL OFFICIEL 

Oct. 7, 1916. 

Chapman (Victor) sergeant pilote a l'escadrille 
N. 124: pilote de chasse qui etait un modele d'audace, 
d'energie et d'entrain et faisait l'admiration de ses 
camarades d'escadrille. Serieusement blesse a la 
tete le 17 juin, a demande a ne pas interrompre son 
service. Quelques jours plus tard, s'etant lance a 
Pattaque de plusieurs avions ennemis, a trouve une 
mort glorieuse au cours de la lutte. 



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HE following pages contain advertisements of a 
few of the Macmillan books on kindred subjects. 



With the Flying Squadron 

By HAROLD ROSHER 

$1.25 

"A stirring narrative of adventure which gives the reader many a 
thrill and which shows an entirely new side of the war — distinctly new 
in that this is the first great conflict in which the aeroplane has played 
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Mr. Rosher's sketches." — Philadelphia Press. 

"There is perhaps no book in the entire round of warlike publica- 
tions which gives to the civilian so strong a sense of the utter reckless- 
ness and of the assured certainty of the aviator's eventual fate. . . . 
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Lieutenant Rosher's terse, dramatic letters vividly foreshadow the 
new period and method of warlike adventure." 

"One of the most fascinating documents which the war has pro- 
duced." — Churchman. 

"Fullest and most convincing pictures of the air fighters' existence 
that have yet been offered to the public."— Boston Globe. 



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Italy, France and Britain at War 

By H. G. WELLS, 
Author of "Mr. Britling Sees it Through," "What is Coming," etc. 

Cloth. i2mo, $1.50 

Mr. Wells first discusses the changing sentiment as regards the war 
in the different countries where it is being waged. He then takes up 
the war in Italy — The Isonzo Front, The Mountain Warfare, and 
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Mr. Wells asks, "What do people think about the war?" Here he 
presents such problems as " Do they really think at all? The Yielding 
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of the War." 

The dates appended to the different chapters show that they were 
written the latter part of 191 6, thus embodying the distinguished 
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talks with illumination and the deepest conviction. ... He has 
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"Mr. Wells, the pacifist, has contributed to the literature of the war 
the most brilliant exposition yet published. There are many great 
pages in the volume — those on the effigy and General Joffre and the 
perfected French method of offensive warfare, for instance; and his 
comparison between the French and English officers is a miracle of 
frankness. . . . — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 



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Mr. Britling Sees 
it Through 



$1.60 



"A powerful, strong story. . . . Has wonderful pages 
. . . gems of emotional literature. . . . Nothing could ex- 
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"The most significant and impressive book which has 
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reader must prize." — New York World. 



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Gallipoli 

By JOHN MASEFIELD 

"This is a miniature epic, or saga, its eloquent but un- 
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The Insurrection in Dublin 

By JAMES STEPHENS 

$1.25 

"Big books have already been written on the subject of the Dublin 
insurrection, but Mr. Stephens' book is by far the most satisfactory 
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THE WAR IN THE AIR 

By H. G. Wells. 
Decorated cloth, Illustrated, i2mo, $1.50 

In this breathlessly interesting story of battle and ad- 
venture in the clouds, Mr. Wells describes the havoc and 
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AIRCRAFT IN WAR 

By J. M. Spaight, LL.D. 
Author of " War Rights on Land." 
8vo, $2.00 
"A thoroughly sound and comprehensive survey of a 
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telligent reader who desires to be informed upon the 
rapidly changing conditions of modern warfare." — London 
Daily Telegraph. 

"Dr. Spaight's views and proposals will undoubtedly be 
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Globe. 

STABILITY IN AVIATION 

By G. H. Bryan. 
Cloth, Illustrated, 8vo, $2.00 
This work will lead to aeroplane stability being made 
the subject of much more continuous study and investiga- 
tion than has been possible in the past. The author's con- 
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inherent stability, both longitudinal and lateral, in an aero- 
plane, by means of suitably placed auxiliary surfaces rigidly 
attached to the machine. 



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